


I wanna love, wanna live/ But it's dark and I'm falling apart

by bigchickcannibalistic



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Slow Burn, This is sorta canon compliant, also a smidge of angst, and barely checked anything so y'know, and making shit up has become a thing, because she didn't actually finish the game, going wild with lore, the author has taken liberties, there's fluff, there's ladies being dumbasses and not dealing with feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-04-21 03:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 45,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14276124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigchickcannibalistic/pseuds/bigchickcannibalistic
Summary: Sometimes when her mother was weary enough, when her father’s been gone too long on the Bloodborder, she’d tell her, in hushed tones, about the Harps.She barely remembers the tales now, but one sentence haunts her still:“They are us, Jodariel. Perhaps they have wings and talons and soar higher than we can imagine, but we share the same curse: we are people.”OrThey start on opposite ends. They don't end that way.





	1. Dust, not feathers

**Author's Note:**

> So you know when you start a new thing to just write something down, and that new thing just... becomes like over 30k words heavier?  
> No, just me?
> 
> This started as a bundle of scenes and through some magic they connect and form a very long thing.
> 
> Title is from 'Motel' by Meg Myers

Her parents used to tell her stories about the Commonwealth whenever she couldn’t sleep. Though her father was banned from telling war stories until she was half his height. Given her growth spur, he told them sooner than her mother wished. Her mother would speak of the history of streets. The legends about the Scribes – _“Just legends, dear. The only truth to them were names.”_ Even an odd tale or two about the trinkets they possess.

And sometimes when her mother was weary enough, when her father’s been gone too long on the Bloodborder, she’d tell her, in hushed tones, about the Harps. Not as they are now – Jodariel heard of them, the Highwing Remnants and all the feral, merciless attacks by just going to the market or school. No, her mother spoke of the time the Highwing Remnants were just the Highwings, passing on tales her own mother told her – of the time where there was peace with the winged folk, however frail it was.

She spoke of them without fear shaking her voice, without hate coating her words like father. Called them beautiful several times and it was often followed by a sad sigh, no doubt thinking at how they’ve sunk so in the war; how it strained both sides until they’re nothing like they were when great-grandma was Jodariel’s age.

She barely remembers the tales now, but one sentence haunts her still:

_“They are us, Jodariel. Perhaps they have wings and talons and soar higher than we can imagine, but we share the same curse: we are people.”_

——————

Oddly enough her mind goes back to her mother’s stories in the midst of combat. She recalls her descriptions as the Harps swarm the sky and descent upon them like a shrieking storm. She remembers the words _grace_ and _fury_ and _beauty_ as talons sink into her arms, as her sword grows bloody, as her feet slip on the soaked soil – soaked red and still unsated. Feeding on their screams.

She looks at the Harps cutting down her shield-siblings one by one.

Cutting down people barely old enough to hold their swords, their nets, whose uniforms and armour hang awkwardly.

She watches as they steal her students – so vibrant so hopeful so bright _they did not deserve this, no one deserves to die like this to be swallowed by the Bloodborder_.

She watches and watches and watches, her mother’s words ringing in her ears still, beneath the buzz of battle. She hears them but the only word that comes to mind with those Harps is _death_.

——————

Captain Jodariel has been on the Bloodborder twice as long as her father.

(A man at the door in more regalia than her father ever wore. Face downturned, helmet off, holding out a deep blue bundle. Her mother wailing without even unwrapping it. _“I’m deeply sorry”_ marks a cavern in her heart, already growing over the years.)

Captain Jodariel has schooled more than two dozen soldiers in her time at the Bloodborder.

(Bright – they wear the uniform proudly. Shaken – they stave off the weight of obligation with a straight back. Most don’t want to be here. Given time all of them will wish to be away. She will teach them to survive it.)

Captain Jodariel has seen near all of them cut down by those feathered fiends – cut down and fed to the same soil she walks on.

(Shrieks and blood and broken things – stone, weapons, bodies. Pleading, praying, fleeing – fleeting. Damn this soil. Damn the Commonwealth for feeding them to it. Damn the Harps for matching tit for tat.)

Captain Jodariel has cut down more Harps than she likes to say – she finds no glory in killing.

(She recalls her father’s hollow eyes. Sees it as her blade finds purchase, as the Harps drop before her. Sees it in a mirror. _How long? How long? Stop. Stop and go home._ )

Captain Jodariel will not – ever – execute children, be they human, Curs, Wyrms, thrice-damned, declared fake prophets, traitors or _Harps_.

(The net’s straining against them – a new mix of fibres, they’ve said, supposed to withstand their talons and metallic claws – and still the bundles push and scrape and curse them, words filled with hollow fire. Their glares blaze like torches but its burning on fear. They couldn’t be ten summers in.)

There is a line and she will _not_ cross it, nor will she allow her platoon to do so as well.

( _“We share the same curse: we are people.”_ )

——————

( _It’s a shame_ , they said, dressed in gold and teal, glaring beneath helmets untarnished, more ornamental than useful, and boots that barely touched red soil.

 _It’s a shame_ , they said as they caught her disobeying a direct order, caught her untying the nets and telling them to run in the early night. _She had a promising career._

It’s a shame, rather, that those same little Harps will likely return to the Bloodborder in a decade or two. And they will be cut down. The ornamental statues posing as generals will not.

It’s a shame the Commonwealth’s killing itself quicker, as if it cannot let the Harps succeed in even _that_.)

——————

(“Captain Jodariel, you stand accused of treason for releasing a dozen captured Highwing Remnant scouts, thus directly disrespecting your superior officers, ignoring several direct orders and endangering the Commonwealth.”

“Whom, need we remind you, you so readily vowed to protect. Surely we do not. It’s barely been a few decades.”

They’re met with silence.

“How… eloquent. Well then, the punishment for this, you know, is death.”

“But we are not without mercy. Captain Jodariel has after all slain over five times the number of Harps in her tenure at the Bloodborder, and indirectly saved countless lives from the menace. Why, we had commanders singing her praise just last week.”

“Indeed. Therefore, given your service we shall thus make a compromise – you shall be exiled, cast down into the Downside, to live out your sentence.”

 _Mercy_ , she mocks as they take her away in chains. _It’s a death sentence with a different name.)_

——————

This is what she gets for saving those Harps –

Days, months, years blurring one into the other, tumbling over each other as she’s stumbling through this wretched place, looking for – Scribes knew what at this point. Staying put is impossible, the restlessness in her won’t allow it, and she refuses, out of principle (pure stubborn spite) to lie down and die in this place. She survived the Bloodborder, remained despite her heart breaking with every one of her shield-sibling’s deathly cries, and she will not let this place have her so _easily_.

This is what she gets for saving –

Pain, pain, slow and itching and irritating pain as these things – _Horns_ , Hedwyn said – slowly grow from beneath her hair. So slow Jodariel’s tempted to tear them out even if it meant leaving a bloody mess. Perhaps then she’ll get some sleep, perhaps then these circles around her eyes will disappear. (But she knows, somehow, they won’t. Just like she knows her eyes weren’t so brightly blue before – Before.)

At least the hooves manifest at once, quicker but no less painful. The howls send Rukey scurrying out of the wagon, have Hedwyn soaking cloth after cloth to quell the fever, the delirium that embraced her and refuses to let go until this is done, until Hedwyn nearly loses an eye to a wayward swipe of her claws.

This is what she gets –

She stares at her reflection in the pond. Stares and wonders: who stares back? Surely it’s not Captain Jodariel, for her eyes weren’t so blue, her hair wasn’t so bleached blonde, her shoulders were defined but not like she could break the mountainside if she wished. Captain Jodariel didn’t have horns and hoofs and claws and darkness around her eyes and an itch beneath her skin, constant and incessant like this place.

This is –

_“They were Harps!” Her father spits._

_They were children!_

“You raised me too well, mother,” Jodariel says to the dark sky, keenly aware of her companions’ snores – the only company she’s likely to get tonight.

——————

In all the years spent in the Downside, Jodariel’s been blessed with nary a sign of Harps. Though given their penchant for high places that give the regular, flight-less bloke a near improbable feat to scale, their absence perhaps isn’t so surprising around the mismatched terrain of sand, jagged rock and grassy field.

Besides, between the Howlers, Rukey’s plans that, day in day out, swing between clever and ridiculous and Hedwyn’s improvisations called recipes on the kindest of terms, Jodariel has enough to worry about.

Then Hedwyn finds the wagon, and later still, the Reader, and Jodariel’s list of things to worry about increases. (Harps being added and crossed and uncrossed and crossed, rinse and repeat.)

——————

If the Reader would humour her and write up a list of all her worries, it would look something like this:

-The howls – both Howler’s and not – bouncing off jagged rocks;

-The green plants that Hedwyn insists isn’t mould – it leaves her neck itching an she’s seen Rukey subtly scrapping at his tongue;

-The healing burns on the Reader’s face and arm;

 ~~-The white bard sitting in the corner, quiet as a stone;~~ This alleged patron of his;

-Howlers;

-Whenever that slug Ron gets a glint in his eyes and dives into a winded discussion about his merchandise;

-The whispering beneath the surface of murky swamp ponds;

-The simultaneous absence of Zhae and Rukey – last time her clothes were yellow and stank of rats and foul cheese;

 ~~-Big Bertrude;~~ Bog Crones in general;

-The Reader’s lapses in attention;

-Sir Gilman’s exercises involving makeshift weapons – next time she’ll let Ti’zo claw at him;

-The drive imps scattering about while they’re at sea;

The parchment would end with, underlined several times:

_-Pamitha Theyn_

——————

The first thing Jodariel notices about the Harp, the seemingly new member of their little group, are her feathers. Not the pieces of Highwing armour, not the calculating look, not the cunning smile. Not how she’s seemingly unarmed, how she’s making herself unthreatening.

No, it is the colour of her feathers – a sharp shade of crimson.

 _Fitting,_ she thinks. For she recalls many a Harp have their feathers soaked in the dirt of the Bloodborder, caked in the same shade of red as the soil. (Even the children, when they were grounded and dragged in nets, faces, knees, feathers scrapping against the ground, coming off red and dusty.)

 _Did she experience it – the chaos of the Bloodborder?_ And Jodariel scoffs at the thought. What Harp hadn’t seen the Bloodborder? So many came again and again that it’s possible their entire population were children and warriors.

And she has that glint in her eyes, the same that Jodariel fails time and again to get rid of. The steel of a soldier. To be haunted like a soldier. And it brings a part of her – not necessarily the Captain that slaughtered too many Harps to tell – but maybe the soldier that looked at the banners of the Commonwealth and wondered _is this enough?_ The soldier that saw half her squad get cut down, that nearly lost her eye to a desperate Harp that wouldn’t surrender.

That side of her echoes with respect. Whether it’s for the Harp or for her surviving similar warfare, it’s hard to tell.

——————

That pang of respect, however, doesn’t warrant trust.

She looks at the Reader, mask held tightly in her hands lest her claws dig into her own skin.

“Forgive me, Reader, but I refuse,” she says, voice ringing, “to look over my shoulder during the Rite. To worry about _her_ talons as much as the Essence’s.”

Jodariel spares a glance at the Harp’s direction, clad in _Nightwing_ raiments and unsurprised at Jodariel’s protest, and goes to the wagon, leaving the Reader to decide who to pick.

(Yet somehow she knows that she’s to sit this one out.)

(Perhaps it’s for the best. She looks at the Essence’s raiments and her eyes replace them bit by bit with Highwing armour. Her arm twitches as she adorns their wings with sharp, metal claws. Her ears ring as she hears shrieks. She would rather have Ti’zo’s fluttering than that.)

——————

There is something to be said about the way the Harp played in the field. Ferocious, quick, cunning even how she moves between the Harps. It’s also refreshing to simply observe a Harp’s movements without fending for your life, without looking for a hitch, a misstep to capitalise on.

Jodariel’s eyes stay on the Harp as she feigns a right and slips by her opponent’s left, with the green Harp too slow to react. Which, as the Rite progresses, is a thing that keeps happening to that Harp enough that Hedwyn utilises it to pass over to Rukey. Yet Pamitha knew from the start.

Perhaps she served with them. (Served, yes, because there are routines in her movement. For all her flexibility and fluidity, Jodariel can find a rigidness born from said routine, not at all foreign to a soldier.) Perhaps they too bear the sting of betrayal, as this Tamitha is so keen on reminding everyone and their ancestors.

The duel is a bit unexpected. Jodariel’s only ever heard one instance of such a thing between Harps. She supposes it’s a lesser evil – the way Tamitha has been cutting off her sister’s advances, well, it looked like she was trying to _cut her up_. And Jodariel might not like the Harp, let alone trust her, but if she’s essential to the Reader, then _all_ of her is essential.

(It’s the only reason Jodariel’s begrudgingly complacent in all of this.)

It ends faster than expected, with the Harp letting her sister awfully close to their Pyre before banishing her, and simply flying over and into the Essence’s. As it ends, if anyone were to look at Jodariel, they’d find her inclining her head, the corner of her lips quirked up, proud. They won after all.

They won because of a _Harp._

The thought loosens her smile, leaving it to hang and ultimately drop like a rock.

——————

Jodariel doesn’t sleep that night; stays awake long after the small festivity Rukey and Zhae pull out of thin air, longer still after the Rite. It had been easy to wrestle night watch out of the Reader’s flimsy grasp.

The woman is maddening at times. To burden herself with night watch after a Rite, when she is the one who needs sleep the most. Her hood doesn’t hide the dark circles if one knew where to look. Jodariel has bitten her tongue after the first attempt at steering her to a proper sleeping schedule, opting to leave it in Hedwyn’s hands and diplomatic words.

(Even so Jodariel had to stare at her – not completely unkindly or without sympathy but neither of those are going to stop the Reader – as the Reader neared the wagon door. Stare until she was certain the Reader wouldn’t try to sneak out the moment she turned around.)

The only other person awake is the Minstrel, who oddly enough, seems more energetic in the moonlit night than during the past few days. As energetic as one gets with tuning their lute. It reminds her of the time one of her older shield-siblings brought a lute to their watch. The image of waving it around as a legitimate weapon tickles at the corners of her lips.

She doubts the Minstrel would be so willing to do that to his lute.

The Minstrel offers silent company, keeping to the Blackwagon’s steps. If he notices how Jodariel keeps her eyes equally trained on the roof of the Blackwagon as well as their surroundings, he doesn’t say anything.

——————

It is one thing for the Minstrel to go and speak to the Harps to broker safe passage to their next Rite. It is another for a Harp which they’ve only known for two days to suggest talking to the Harps nearby for information about the land beyond.

She has the gall to suggest such a thing in front of Jodariel, who knows how scouting groups fare in Harp territory. Knows –

_They swoop down suddenly, like an ominous cloud that echoes with shrieks for thunder, holds talons instead of lightning. In one instant you’d be there, in the next you’d be gone with only a scream. A cacophony of shrieks and screams and blades until there’s only one left to meet the silence that settles like a fog –_

_— Only one in the grave of red and teal and bronze, with her back stinging and slouched and empty –_

“No.”

“Don’t be so quick to shoot it down, Jodariel.”

Jodariel bristles at her tone, at how she says her name. “I refuse to let you waste our time. There is no point in talking to those –”

“Those what?” The Harp cuts her off, voice holding a tired edge; head held high and chin jutted out defiantly. And still she barely reaches Jodariel’s shoulders. “Those savages? Those bloodthirsty Harps? My _people_?”

_“We share the same curse: we are people.”_

“The Bloodborder is called that for a reason. Not entirely the Commonwealth’s fault,” Jodariel points out, arms crossed.

“Indeed.” And the Harp’s anger fizzles out with the word. Then she tilts her head, thoughtful look shining in her eyes, before they close off. “Tell me, when the Minstrel brokered passage, he did come back, didn’t he?”

A pause. The Harp raises her brow, challenging.

“Was he wounded? Missing a limb or his instrument? Perhaps his hat? I know a few Harps that love hats, especially pointy ones like his.”

Jodariel glares, yet her continued silence is all the admission the Harp needs. _Should_ need. But no, she has to put salt in the wound, has to drag it further until someone voiced her point.

“Reader darling?” The Harp looks at her expectantly. Jodariel gives her a stern look once their eyes meet, but she knows just by looking at the Reader that the woman’ll tell the truth. Always strives for honesty that one.

“He was fine,” the Reader says, shrugging her shoulders helplessly.

“Oh. Fine was he?” The Harp raises her brow at Jodariel, her smirk too smug for Jodariel’s liking.

“All right,” Jodariel grits out, leaning down. “Do what you wish. But I won’t drag you out of there when they attack, Harp.”

“Oh, don’t worry, darling.” Her smirk turns to a toothy grin. _Tit for tat._ “I can take care of myself just fine.”

——————

As soon as Jodariel sees the group – the Lone Minstrel, the Reader and the Harp – approaching beyond the hill, safe and unharmed, Jodariel’s quick to avert her gaze to the next hill. She doesn’t need to look to know that the Harp’s pleased with herself, and she certainly doesn’t need to have that shoved in her face by the same feathered woman. Because she’ll be all too pleased to do that.

Hells, might even be giddy while doing so.

“Hedwyn!” Jodariel shouts, waiting for the clanking of pots to stop. “The Reader’s returned. I’m sure she’s eager to tell us what they’ve learned. If anything.”

Hedwyn, Scribes bless him, doesn’t point out that she should be the one talking to the Reader about this. He just shouts back an _“okay”_ and hurries to greet them, one small pot held in hand and clothes stained with what she can only assume is to be their dinner.

And it’s entirely to avoid a scuffle that Jodariel avoids so much as looking the Harp’s way for the remainder of the day.

——————

Should that avoidance prolong itself – somehow, certainly by no will of Jodariel’s – it’s entirely to protect her pride.

——————

(“Do you ever miss the battles, Commandant?”

“I’m not a Commandant, knight.”

“Had the knights your honourable self, this knight is sure – no, _p-o-s-i-t-i-v-e,_ you would’ve held such a title. And this knight doesn’t wish to insult by ignoring your deeds, so call you a Commandant this knight would like to continue.”

Jodariel closes her eyes and inhales. She holds her breath, ticks off the number of statues close to her house – 7 and a half – and exhales through her nose, opening her eyes in the process. Sir Gilman is still looking at her expectantly, but also with a shine in his eye.

“No. I don’t miss them.” _They cling too close to miss them._ “And Jodariel’s fine, Sir Gilman.”)

——————

She manages three full days without even talking to the Harp, a small blessing given how cramped they’ve been while travelling. And their group is big enough for Jodariel to be as far away from the Harp as possible during meal time, despite Hedwyn and the Reader trying to get them to sort out whatever’s been bugging them. Oh they haven’t said anything yet, but their glances aren’t so subtle.

Her mother always said the Scribes never provide everlasting blessings.

This one ends with a melodic tune of “No need to look so sour.”

Jodariel doesn’t need to look up from mending a scarf to know where the Harp is. The Harp’s taken to the roof of the Blackwagon, when she isn’t flying about. Too much freedom in Jodariel’s eyes, but she supposed she’d get antsy cooped up with the rest of them. And nobody wishes to deal with an antsy Harp.

Jodariel does spare her a glance, feeling that the Harp has more to say but is waiting for an audience. At the sight of that cheeky grin Jodariel wishes she didn’t.

“After all everyone makes mistakes, Jodi darling.” It might be the sun, how it reflects on the Harp’s helmet, but her grin turns a new shade of smug. It’s a tie as to what irritates her more: that or the insistence on calling her _Jodi darling_.

She grumbles out a response, turning her attention to her work. She’s barely made two tugs with the needle when a fluttering of wings reaches her. Jodariel bites her lip, less her fingers snap the needle – second one this month. She breathes in, counts to three.

She dares to hope the Harp’s departed to pester someone else.

There’s a shadow above her shoulder. _Light on her landings,_ Jodariel thinks as she waits for the Harp to say something. Waits.

And waits.

And w-

“What do you want?” Jodariel asks once the silence grates her nerves. “Or am I simply amusing you?”

“You can’t blame me for being surprised you know how to knit, darling.” Her voice isn’t sharp. Playful certainly but it’s hardly a stab at Jodariel.

“Around here it became a necessity,” Jodariel says simply.

“And in the Commonwealth?”

Jodariel flinches, stabbing the needle all the way through. Jodariel looks over her shoulder, the movement causes the Harp to lean away, avoiding Jodariel’s horn. There is something jarring about a _Harp_ asking of her time in the Commonwealth. Jarring how everyone steps around the topic, how it’s an unsaid question, save maybe for the Reader. But even she refrains.

The Harp has yet to reveal anything they haven’t seen in the Rite. Even now she reveals nothing.

“I imagine it’s essential. They do have clothes. As do the Highwings.” Jodariel shrugs, and goes back to work. The Harp actually chuckles, and to Jodariel’s surprise she remains silent.

It is, however, too much to hope that she leaves. No, instead, she sits there for a moment longer, eyes on Jodariel, on her work, both at the same time or neither – it is hard to tell.

The oddest thing about that? Her presence isn’t intrusive.

Jodariel recalls a five day standoff on the western edge of the Bloodborder, in the early years of her tenure there. She recalls staring into the night, eyes darting over the landscape for any sliver of movement, knowing full well the Harps are doing the same.

She expects it to be much like that – to feel the mesh of hot and cold against her neck, to feel hairs stand on edge, for nerves to make her skin itch and her fingers shake and force her to jump on the barest hint of sound with her hand going for her sword.

It should feel like that.

So why doesn’t it?

——————

When the Reader summons for the Harp, a small eternity later (that realistically isn’t longer than an hour) Jodariel’s eyes snap to follow her. As if simply looking at her will give Jodariel a piece of the puzzle that is Pamitha Theyn; will explain why she continues to strive to unnerve Jodariel.

Explain why she stayed after the Rite.

Explain why Jodariel doesn’t feel like a soldier facing down a Harp.

Maybe the Scribes will bestow upon her a hint. Not that Captain Jodariel should need a hint figuring out these –

But she’s not _Captain_ Jodariel, is she? She’s just Jodariel, an exile among many.

Like the Harp.

It’s either a blessing or a curse that their eyes meet for a moment. A blessing in that she does get a hint of interest from those teal eyes. A curse that she cannot make anything out of the rest of it.

——————

Jodariel cannot sleep that night. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees a mash of teal and crimson feathers, and she wakes with a groan in the back of her throat. Honestly she’d take her horns growing any day over the Harp tormenting her dreams.

She shouldn’t be thinking this much about the Harp. There is no reason. Little reason for her to keep that brief look in her thoughts so much. Somewhat ironic, just the day prior Jodariel’s been content with avoiding any flicker of the Harp; now she’s sitting in the main room, fixing her braid blindly instead of sleeping all because of a single look from the Harp.

_Ridiculous._

There’s a mild chirp somewhere above her right. Ti’zo to flutters down onto her horn, fur still mussed from sleeping in his nest. He yawns, shaking himself awake. Jodariel pokes him lightly, smile stretching.

“If you’re sleepy, go back to sleep, little one,” Jodariel whispers. She may be in the main area of the wagon, but the door separating their sleeping room isn’t thick enough to block out her voice unless she _tries_ to whisper.

Ti’zo chirps in displeasure, but what he says is a mystery. Tone is as far as Jodariel’s managed to decipher of his speech. Though from what the Reader’s told them, the farthest she’s gotten is the intent and meaning behind Ti’zo’s chirps, not the words themselves.

The imp bumps his head against Jodariel’s hand, chirping in a deeper tone, but it ends with a lighter note. Almost like a question.

“Can’t sleep.” Ti’zo hops to the end of her horn so she can look at him semi-proper. He gives her a tired, unimpressed look. “At least one of us should get some sleep.”

He puffs up his chest, purring something out in a deep tone, eyes insistent.

“Would if I could go to sleep.” She finishes her braid, despite several strands slipping as she ties it. Well, she is planning on doing it again in the morning when she can actually see what she’s doing.

Ti’zo jumps on his perch, and the jerking motion sends a pinch of pain to the side of Jodariel’s head. Ti’zo coos softly, something – his foot most likely – tapping her horn.

“No, it’s not the horns.” How she wishes it were just the horns. Jodariel inclines her head minimally, mindful not to send the imp flying with the move. “Not entirely.”

The imp tilts his head, cooing quizzically. _How to explain it to an imp when I can’t understand it myself?_

“Nerves I suppose. We _are_ in a forest that shifts too much for comfort.”

Ti’zo nods, fur sticking up as he curls into himself. Jodariel runs her claws along his back, soothing, much like she did when they first entered the woods, with Ti’zo practically flying into her neck so that he could wrap himself in her scarf. Up until that moment the imp hadn’t even flinched at their surroundings – not the Bog, not the Sea of Solis, not the Deathless Tempest, not even at the high cliffs of the Basin.

Jodariel blinks and Ti’zo’s gone.

Another blink, and she spots him hopping near that green orb the Reader uses almost daily. ( _“She’s lonely,” the Reader said. “Doesn’t say as much. Well, not seriously, but she is.”_ ) He looks to be hopping in a pattern. Jodariel moves closer, and notes that he’s hopping on a white cloth, torn from all the wind they’ve had sailing the Sea of Solis yet kept because it might be useful.

Like say leaving paint-stained footprints.

“What are you doing, little one?”

Ti’zo chirps and coos, weaving an unfamiliar melody. He looks up at her, eyes expectant but Jodariel can only shrug. Ti’zo frowns, paint-stained wings dropping onto the cloth. Jodariel wonders which paint he found when Ti’zo suddenly flies up and flutters anxiously near her arm, until Jodariel raises it for him to land. Ignoring her questioning look, the imp hops to her hand, leaving blue stains in his wake. He doesn’t stop until most of her hand’s covered in paint, at which point he flies back to the cloth, plopping down.

Jodariel stares blankly. Ti’zo shakes one of his wings and drags it along the cloth. He chirps once, encouraging.

 _I’m hardly for the arts_ – is at the tip of her tongue, but one look at his big eyes, shining in the green glow, and Jodariel knows she’s done for. With a sigh, she gingerly sits down, and starts tapping on the cloth randomly.

At some point Ti’zo drags the jar of paint, one she’s pretty sure Tariq put above the highest shelf, so as to avoid another one of Zhae’s unsupervised redecorating efforts. He couldn’t have possibly gotten it in the short while Jodariel wasn’t looking.

“Who fetched this?” Joadriel taps the jar, eyes narrow. Ti’zo covers his mouth with his wings, shaking his head. “They won’t get into trouble.”

Ti’zo shakes his head slowly, chirping lowly as he does so. _Promised not to, eh?_

Jodariel hums. She dips two claws into the paint, draws lines and swirls thoughtlessly. As it forms the crooked symbol of the Commonwealth Corps, she slashes a line down the middle. Then another diagonally. Rinse and repeat until the symbol’s barely recognisable.

The result tickles something at the back of Jodariel’s mind, picking and prodding at an image she’s seen once upon a time. Yet she cannot drag it to the surface.

Snores reach her, light and ending with chirps. She looks up – finds Ti’zo curled up in the centre of the maze, walls made out of his footsteps. Specks of blue mar his fur. With a smile, Jodariel scoops him up with her clean hand, and moves to leave him in his nest.

She thinks, as she passes it, that the orb dims. As if biding goodnight.

——————

(“Perhaps you should rest, Jodi,” the Reader says, sorting colourful strips of cloth.

“You are one to talk,” Jodariel mutters. She moves toward the kitchen, settling several large logs at the steps.

The Reader pauses, fingers fiddling with a frayed end of a lime green cloth. Jodariel can feel rather than see the Reader’s eyes.

“Perhaps,” she offers. “But I haven’t been hoisting logs all morning.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s something,” the Reader protests. She lowers the cloths, eyes peeking beneath her hood and shining in the dimmed sunlight. There’s a rueful grin pulling at her scars. “At least one of us should take care of herself.”

“I’m fine.” Jodariel subconsciously straightens her shoulders, holding herself together as if she were speaking to someone dressed in teal and red and gold, face obscured by an ornamental mask.

_“Everything all right, Captain?”_

The Reader sighs and closes her eyes, shoulder slumping with the movement and Jodariel steps forward – _she is the Reader, not a Commander, not a Commonwealth statue, you are not there –_ ready to catch her should she slip again. She stops once the Reader looks at her again, shooting a reassuring smile.

“You can leave camp if you want. If it’s less –” she inclines her head back, eyes darting to the ceiling for a moment – “Tense for you. I’m sure Sir Gilman will be more than happy to take over. Unless glaring at the trees is exclusively your thing?”

Jodariel huffs. But the idea is tempting.

“Send the Cur for me at the first sign of trouble.”

“Don’t worry.”)

——————

(Jodariel sends a glance to the roof of the Blackwagon – pauses when she finds it Harp-free.

Her eyes dart around the treeline, and she breathes easier once they land on a wine-winged figure, lounging.

_Worried for her?_

Jodariel bristles at the suggestion, her steps quicker than necessary. As if she knows teal eyes follow after her.)

——————

_Feet skidding against the cobblestones. She’s late for – late –_

_She is late, it doesn’t right matter for what._

_She’s late, and her armour’s heavy and sticking to her beneath the harsh sun. The canopies above provide barely any comfort, what with her running through the crowd, mumbling apologies whenever she pushes people._

_She’s late, and not for the first time, and it wouldn’t do to be late again. The mere thought of it has her feet tripping over themselves, trying to go faster, move quicker. Past the Murr statue, make a left then a –_

_Then jump over a pot to avoid a Cur in purple robes. What is he doing there, lying in the middle of the street for Scribes’ sake – she ought to arrest him for public indecency. Especially with that shady moustache and that green tail –_

_Green tail –_

“Jodariel!”

“Pissing Scribes!” Jodariel roars as she slips from her sleeping place and falls face first into the little stream nearby. If the screaming Harp didn’t wake her up sufficiently, the cold water does. Perhaps if she stays there long enough, she’ll drown and not have to piece together her dignity.

Then again drowning in this stream will do nothing good for her dignity.

With an internal sigh, Jodariel buries her fingers in the soil, barely feels the rocks lodge into her palm, and gets up. She spits out water, shoving wet hair from her face, in time to see the Harp hide half her face behind her wing, amusement tightly kept in check.

Jodariel glares, water dripping from her bangs.

“I’m not laughing,” the Harp defends immediately. Jodariel just narrows her eyes further, not believing her for a second. “I’m not. Little Flock’s honour.”

“That sounds like rubbish.” Jodariel stands, shaking her arms as water drips from her clothes. Well, she did think about cleaning her shirt. Just not while wearing it.

“Rubbish enough to be a legitimate thing.”

“That takes away from its legitimacy.” Jodariel drags her scarf off, wrinkling her nose where it stubbornly sticks to her neck and tugs at her braid. It takes a good yank to get it off completely.

“Not a sentiment the powers of naming seem to accept, I’m afraid.” The Harp tilts her head as Jodariel wrings out her scarf. There’s an off-putting leisure in her movement, accentuated more than usual. _So there’s no trouble at camp._

Twisting the scarf one last time, Jodariel finds her still peering at the scarf, eyes thoughtful.

“What?” she asks, perturbed by this little thing specifically, rather than being soaking wet.

“That isn’t the same scarf you patched up.” She raises her brows, wings shifting minutely. “Is it?”

Sharp. Expected, if Jodariel’s being honest.

“Does it matter? It’s wet all the same,” Jodariel shoots back coldly. It was her business all the same. The Harp literally flew down uninvited.

“For the record I had no clue you’d slide into the river when I woke you up.” The Harp raises her wings, slowly, feathers spread out in front of her, placating. Then she twists them, making the lighter feathers shine under the sunlight – not unlike how one turns their hand palm-up. Her eyes shine with a curious glint Jodariel doesn’t like at all. “Why were you sleeping on the rock to begin with, Jodi darling? Seemed rather unsafe.”

“Because the roof of a moving wagon is safer,” Jodariel deadpans. She wraps the wet scarf on one horn (an idea she got from the first time Zhae tied her small stick stars to them) and moved to unclasp her cloak. With the way she’s dripping it’s probably soaked by now.

“It is if you’re a light sleeper. Or capable of catching yourself mid-air when you’re not.”

Jodariel drags the wet cloak over her shoulder with an extra flourish, to hide her surprise. Because the Harp’s sharing something about herself. Yes, it’s masked as a poke at Jodariel’s evident deep sleep, and how she doesn’t have wings to catch herself when slipping from a rock and into the river, but, _but._

But she insinuated she’s a light sleeper. Practically tossed that titbit like tossing a pebble onto a water’s surface.

It makes this whole encounter suspect, though.

She is not here to call Jodariel back to camp – the only reason she’d actively seek out Jodariel in this Scribes cursed forest. It’s a long way to go just to pester her.

“What do you want?” Jodariel concentrates on wringing her cloak. Glaring at the Harp has proven to be as effective as it is on Hedwyn. It’s become disconcerting.

The Harp hums lightly. “Perhaps we should discuss it after you’ve changed?”

——————

(The Reader gives her a worried look.

“Harp,” Jodariel grits out, storming past to fetch new clothes. When she’s done, the Reader looks even more worried. She grabs Jodariel’s cloak before the Demon can storm out.

“Is everything all right?” she asks tentatively.

Isn’t that the question of the day?

“She wants to talk,” Jodariel says simply. She glances down as the Reader’s hand slips from her cloak, and leaves before the Reader can say anything other than a faint _“oh.”_ )

——————

“You do love that shade of purple, don’t you, darling?” the Harp notes from her perch atop a twisted tree, quite a way away from the Blackwagon. Jodariel supresses the urge to tug at her shirt.

(Yes it’s a similar shade as her drying one. They got several as part of a “mutually beneficial” deal with the obnoxiously perky merchant, courtesy of Rukey. She wasn’t overly picky at the time.)

“What do you want?” Jodariel repeats herself, arms crossed. The Harp had kept to the trees once the Blackwagon was in view, presumably to give Jodariel space. But she taps her foot against the tree branch – _tap-tap-tap_.

Jodariel’s mind goes back to the Rite with the Essence, goes to the Harp clag in blue, head obscured by the mask. Fixates on deceptively loose shoulders, and to a foot giving away her nerves, going _tap-tap-tap_.

“Right. I did say we’d discuss this once you’ve changed clothes.” She clicks her tongue, head tilted, eyes considering. “Though one could argue that – without prior knowledge – you’re still in the same set of clo –”

Jodariel closes her eyes, something flaring right above her brow.

“Harp,” she grits out. The Downside had given her time for many things, but it hadn’t stretched her patience for stalling.

She hears a sharp exhale, like breathing through gritted teeth. Then it’s silent – and with this forest it’s literally _silent._ Jodariel’s close to walking away when she hears a rushed, “Ineedyourhelp.”

“Pardon?” Jodariel opens her eyes, and is met with a disgruntled Harp. The Harp lowers her arms, talons digging into the bark as she leans forward _._ She’s considering not repeating herself. So much so she’s biting her lip, glaring daggers into Jodariel.

It occurs to her, somewhere deep in the stare-off, that the Harp might think Jodariel’s pretending at ignorance.

The Harp releases her lip with a plop, and it comes off redder than usual. (It draws more attention to her lips than it should.)

“I need your help,” she says, clearly this time.

“Help?” Jodariel narrows her eyes. _Of all the people to ask in this bloody wagon –_ “With what?”

“This is to stay between us.” She gesticulates between them. “I feel I should clarify that before I tell you the reason.”

Well this is off to a great start.

“Ashamed of something, Harp?”

“No.” The Harp scrunches up her nose, offended. She stops to think something over before continuing, “It’s simply a private matter, darling, and I want it to remain so.”

She’s lucky that Jodariel has absolutely no intentions of ever speaking of this – audience notwithstanding. Truly the only reason she’s even hearing her out is because she’s curious. The Harp hasn’t asked for help with anything as far as Jodariel knows.

Even if she did need something, Jodariel has no qualms that she’s on the bottom of the Harp’s list.

“Okay.” Jodariel inclines her head, eyes fixed on the Harp still. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Lovely.” The Harp offers a smile. Without warning she drops from the branch, landing with nary a sound. She squares her shoulder, and juts her chin out, staring Jodariel down. Well, it’d be effective if she could reach Jodariel’s eyes.

“I’d like to practice with you, like we’re in the Rites. One on one.”

…What?

“We’ve barely finished the last one.” Jodariel narrows her eyes. “Awfully eager of you.”

“It helps to keep myself on my toes. Don’t want any nasty surprises catching me unprepared.”

“Expecting trouble? Something I should know?” Jodariel leans forward, brows raised.

“Nothing of the sort, Jodi darling,” the Harp offers a disarming smile.

Jodariel doesn’t blink, knows that there is no such thing as a truly disarmed Harp. “But you are hiding something.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Jodariel is many things when staring at a smiling Harp, yet ridiculous doesn’t even lick at her hooves. Truly could she have expected the Harp to show her hand – er, feathers? What conversations she’s overheard, the Harp had flexed her diversion skills enough to give seasoned fighters a cramp.

And yet at the river she offered a sliver willingly, as inconsequential as it seems. Like temptation. And Jodariel had fallen right into it, like a fool.

_But she had come to you._

Jodariel exhales – a long rumble at the back of her throat – eyes studying the Harp meticulously. Like she did her recruits, lined up before her, barely settled in their boots. They shook beneath Jodariel’s glare. The Harp doesn’t.

“And here I thought I might help you. But if you’d rather keep lying about your reasons.” Jodariel shrugs lightly. Without another word she leaves. If the Harp’s serious about this, she’ll come forth. Otherwise Jodariel has the rest of the day to herself.

(What, did you think glares and threats are her only tools? Give her some credit. She was raised in the _Commonwealth_ after all. Spent most of her childhood following her mother to the Markets, listening to her haggle with merchants big and small.)

She’s halfway to the Blackwagon when the Harp finally settles on speaking.

“Fine.” Jodariel stops at the exasperated sound, and turns to see the Harp gesture next to her, calling her back.

“Darling Reader’s pet wraith,” she starts once Jodariel’s close enough, irritation sharpening her words, “summoned me for a test, as I’m sure she’s done the rest of you. If she hasn’t, we’re having _words_ later.”

“She did.”

“Good.”

A pause.

“She found my performance… unsatisfactory.”

“You lost the Trial.” Jodariel hadn’t planned on saying anything else, but the Harp’s keeping her wings close, and is refusing to look at Jodariel. The loss stung – _stings –_ even if she won’t admit it, and Jodariel finds herself saying, “It happens to the best of us.”

The Harp snorts, and makes no effort to mask it. She looks at Jodariel askance, searching. Wings loosen a tad.

“I appreciate the comfort, but I’d rather do something about it than wallow in self-pity and fish for compliments. Hence waking you up, which –” she clicks her tongue, inclining her head. She faces Jodariel proper, and Jodariel’s surprised how softer the Harp’s expression is. It throws her off that she nearly misses the words “I suppose I could’ve been nicer about it.”

“Apology noted.”

It might be the closest thing to one Jodariel gets.

——————

“ _Please_ don’t kill each other.” The Reader taps her fingers anxiously against the green orb. The action, presumably, doesn’t hurt the wraith. With how she’s grown attached to her, Jodariel doubts the Reader’d do anything to consciously hurt her.

_You’re stalling._

She fastens her mask in time to see the ends of the Reader’s serious look. The hooded woman sends the same one to the Harp.

“I actually don’t think violence will hash out age-old animosities,” she adds once it’s clear neither of them are planning on stopping.

“I agree, Reader darling. Can’t speak for Jodariel. However –” there’s a pause where the Harp’s sliding her mask on. “I can assure you we won’t kill each other.”

The Harp turns to look at Jodariel, and though Jodariel can’t see her expression, she’s certain the Harp’s smug underneath. “She’s won’t catch me.”

“We will see.” Jodariel narrows her eyes, fixing her cuffs. She studiously ignores the spark of excitement jumping beneath the surface.

“Scribes save me,” the Reader mutters, head in her hands.

——————

This is what she learns from their sparring match:

Watching Pamitha Theyn fight and fighting Pamitha Theyn are two, vastly different situations.

It helps that Jodariel’s kept a close eye on the Harp during the previous Rite, and that Pamitha herself hasn’t had the opportunity. And though that prior knowledge dictates what Jodariel should expect, its dictatorship lasts scarcely anything substantial. The Harp adapts to Jodariel quicker than Jodariel’s used to, quicker than the only other Harp opponent she had in the Downside.

Quicker than those on the Bloodborder, with skill definitely _resembling_ a soldier’s but not.

From the sidelines, the Harp’s technique resembles a fluid movement, with the skeleton of a soldier. Up front it is best described as a dance, equal parts finesse and recklessness. Where Jodariel is used to Harps charging at her, with their auras hitting her like a well-aimed ram or with sharpened feathers poised to rend, Pamitha glides by – studying. Toying.

As soon as she’s close, Jodariel swipes with her Aura, lets the heat grow excessively.

_Don’t go into the passes. Don’t you dare cross the torchlight._

_They toy in the night, wrapped tight like a cloak and snickering beneath the wind. See and strike. See and cut. Snap-snap-snap and you’re dead unless you’re quick. They laugh as you die._

When the strike does happen – announced with such nonchalance it borders on arrogance – Jodariel digs her hooves in, deciding to risk it and try catch Pamitha as she barrels through.

That is a mistake – Pamitha doesn’t barrel through.

She _slices_ through.

 _Enough,_ the Reader’s presence insists, and Jodariel feels the tug from within as the world morphs and blurs back into the interior of the Blackwagon. She realises she’s sitting only when she feels the Reader’s charred hand on her shoulder – a feat the small woman couldn’t accomplish, even when standing on her tiptoes.

It takes her a second longer to note the Reader’s fingers are toying where her raiments are cut.

“You two don’t do things half-way. Well, aside from killing each other. And talking,” the Reader remarks, both amusement and exasperation in her voice. Jodariel grumbles, claws poised to remove her mask. As her palm grazes her chin, Jodariel stops, gliding her claws to further inspect the perforation.

There’s what feels most like a cut, where Pamitha’s aura hit her mask. It’s not big, just enough to catch your finger.

The Harp in question laughs, and Jodariel finally turns to see her mask-less, hair messy and rolling her left wing. The same one she raised at Jodariel’s Aura, to try and shield herself. The sight stirs something in Jodariel. Takes her to an old, tall house, a bed that refuses to be made, and a hushed story.

“Best to spar properly, Reader darling, or all you learn leaves room for error.” She shakes her wing but not all of her feathers stretch to their full length. After a few twitches, most do. The Harp looks over at Jodariel, eyes appraising in the dimmed light. “Like how Jodi’s Aura packs a punch.”

Jodariel scoffs in time with the clasp coming loose. She takes the mask off, turning to inspect it and – there _is_ a cut along the mask’s chin. Her chin tingles with a phantom sting. Jodariel lets out a thoughtful noise.

“You’re not bad yourself,” she says, one corner of her mouth quirking upward before she stops it. If the Harp noticed, she doesn’t show it.

Then the Reader plops next to her, head against her shoulder and sighs, long and hard. “Is this going to be a thing?”

——————

No. It’s definitely not going to be a thing.

——————


	2. fires burned at midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Will you stop looking at me like I’ve suggested we nest with drive imps, and say _something_?”  
>   
>  “You really hate the cold,” is what first comes to mind. Not the most helpful of things to say, but certainly the most _obvious_. Scribes, sometimes she wishes Hedwyn hadn’t found the wagon. Sometimes she wishes she just lay near the river and waited for death. Sometimes she wishes –  
>   
>  Then Pamitha laughs – a startled laugh, nothing like the controlled, melodious ones Jodariel’s heard – and part of her thinks _maybe it’s not all bad._  
>   
>  She’s too tired to argue with herself over why thinking _that_ because a _Harp_ laughed is such a bad idea.

Humming breaks between the leaves, and for a fleeting moment Jodariel thinks it’s her. But no, her voice is too deep for the light notes and where the melody is a stream or a chime, hers would be a waterfall or a distant thunder. And, most importantly, she hasn’t mastered the art of humming above herself – physically above.

She supposes it’s a better announcement than dropping down next to Jodariel, or rustling leaves. Or shouting her name while Jodariel sleeps on a rock above a stream. She’s not sore about that. Absolutely not.

“You’re in high spirits.”

The humming stops, however short it lasted, and Jodariel’s surprised to find she wishes it didn’t.

“The wraith wasn’t entirely snippy today,” the Harp says lightly. If Jodariel looks, she’d find her looking as disinterested as she sounds. She’d also find eyes straying to her – curious, prodding, playing – all of the above? She doesn’t look.

“So it went well.”

“Yes.” The Harp stretches the word, considering something. It’s almost enough to get Jodariel to look up but she tightens her arms and studiously stares at the treeline, daring anything to come.

What comes is, “Thank you.” Simple and light, yet it falls on Jodariel like the smoothest of silks – always draped over the merchants’ stalls, always out of reach, her mother’s hand slapping hers away, _overpriced._

_Luxurious_ , Jodariel argues, Pamitha’s voice in her head.

“Think nothing of it,” Jodariel says out of reflex more than anything. Once it’s out she can’t take it back, so she lets the words linger between them. It is quiet, obnoxiously so, and she swears the forest gets more stifling with each passing night. Like something’s waiting for them, calm and quiet. Solitude manifested.

But there’s shifting overhead and Jodariel’s reminded she’s not, in fact, alone. She doesn’t recall making a noise, just the shifting of her shoulders and a crack as she turns her neck this way and that.

“You don’t mind company, do you?” the Harp asks though it feels more of a courtesy, like when they ask _“You don’t mind first watch, do you?”_ even though they fully intend to dump it on you regardless of your answer. “Since we’re both up and I figured it’s better for my immediate future not to be the ‘creep from atop the roof.’”

Even with that image, it’s doubtful the Harp could be more creepy than the forest. Still it would save Jodariel the effort of wondering where the Harp’s gone to. Save her the pinpricks of paranoia, the scratching of _she’s plotting something_. Save her the introspective trip (and headache) wondering why part of her is convinced she won’t do anything.

“Do as you like.” Jodariel leans back against the tree. She feels more than hears the Harp get comfortable, and Jodariel tenses her shoulders, waiting for jabs and prods.

But Pamitha stays quiet. Somehow the silence isn’t as stifling.

——————

“Harp?”

Rustling, followed by a sharp creek of a branch as Pamitha shifts. Then, a tired, “Yes?”

“Checking if you’re awake.”

“Of course I am.” Yet the weight in her voice speaks a different story.

“You were quiet,” Jodariel shoots back instead.

“I can be quiet.”

“Truly?” No sooner had Jodariel uttered the words, a fruit drops pointedly on her head, bouncing off to fall in her lap. Jodariel leans her head back, narrowing her eyes until they land on Pamitha, legs crossed and balancing another fruit on her foot.

Once upon a time she’d have bolted at the sight of a Harp above her in the night. Once upon a time she’d have a weapon aimed at her throat. Once upon a time she wasn’t a Demon sitting in a weird forest, challenging in the Rite with a group that includes a Harp.

Once upon a time they were beautiful and gracious and at peace.

Now Jodariel doesn’t know what they are. Doesn’t care. Except on those fleeting moments where Pamitha Theyn skips out of _irritating_ and into – into something.

“I have many talents,” the Harp shoots back. She aims for secretive – a mysterious flair that Jodariel can’t rightly see in the dark – but a yawn wedges between her words, and the fruit slips down. Jodariel catches it, dropping it to its twin in her lap.

“Go inside.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re one wing in the wagon already.” Jodariel looks back to the ominous forest. Still unmoving. Still creepy. “One wing here and the other there is uncomfortable.”

“Careful, Jodi. You almost sound worried.”

Jodariel scoffs. “I’m not catching you when you fall.”

“Of course not,” Pamitha says, shifting above her, and the tree shakes when the Harp leans back forcefully. Emphasising she’s here to stay. Jodariel ignores her – her and the warmth rising inside at the thought of the Harp’s stubborn company.

——————

Jodariel doesn’t have to catch her.

——————

A weight lifted from Jodariel’s shoulder once they finally left the blasted forest. In its place came a headache, bearing pain close to that of her horns growing. The Reader shares a similar fate given her near constant furrowed brow, charred skin pulled even tighter. Not even the glowing orb seems to calm her; no doubt the wraith has tried.

Still Jodariel spots her holding it still – tucked in her lap and held close in her arms. Almost like they’re both watching the sea. Perhaps they are. Jodariel has little knowledge of the workings of curses that predate even the Commonwealth. And little wish to find out.

“Still in there?” the Reader asks quietly.

“Still in your spot, yes.” Jodariel moves to stand next to her, back against the wall of the wagon. It’s still… odd to think their wagon can turn into a ship. Odder still that no one has thrown that Sap Volfred overboard, with all the toes he’s stepping on. Benefactor or not.

“Yay,” the Reader sighs, voice bereft of cheerfulness.

“If you wish, I can move him,” Jodariel offers, glancing down at the Reader.

“As much as I’d love to see that, I think it’s best to not kick the hornet’s nest while we’re forced to share space.” The Reader looks up from beneath her hood, circles underneath her eyes that have nothing to do with shadows. She offers a tired, but grateful smile, right side twitching the web of scars. “Thanks for the offer.”

Jodariel nudges her with her thigh, but not enough for the Reader to topple. They stare out into the sea, letting the silence linger between them.

“You’re not out here just for me, right, Jodi?” the Reader asks, eyes on the dark horizon.

“No. I’m relieving the Harp of her watch.”

The Reader turns, brows furrowed. “She wasn’t out here.”

“Exactly.”

“Everything all right?”

Jodariel had finished helping Tariq sort through their things so there was more room since everyone’s cramped in the wagon, and what did she find when she entered the sleeping area? The Harp and the Cur passed out, with a bottle of greenish liquid held in the Harp’s talons. Stepping closer, Jodariel was overcome with the stench of alcohol and berries. It was only the fact that everyone else had been asleep that spared them the blunt of her anger.

“Peachy. She fell asleep.”

Instead she snatched the only free blanket and covered both of the idiots, not even registering what she’s doing until she’s done it. She stopped then, pondering whether to take off the Harp’s helmet, which she’s obviously insistent on wearing at all times. Definitely not because something tugged in her chest at the sight of how calm the Harp – how calm _Pamitha_ is when asleep.

“How are your burns?” Jodariel asks, stalling any further questions.

(What Jodariel doesn’t say is that she felt eyes on the back of her neck, piercing. Yet when she looked back, everyone was asleep.)

——————

When she helps the Reader inside, carrying the half-asleep woman despite incoherent protests, Jodariel notes that Pamitha has burrowed deeper into the blanket, while Rukey has managed to cocoon himself with half of it. With an eye roll, Jodariel lowers the Reader next to Pamitha, and pries the green orb out of the Reader’s grasp.

The plan’s just to leave it beneath a bench nearby, boxed in so it doesn’t roll with the ship’s swaying. But Jodariel looks over, eyes pulled to both the Reader and Pamitha huddled together with the Harp’s uncovered wing pulled tight against herself. Jodariel’s throat tightens, an image flashing before her eyes, followed by the smell of oils and dust.

She inhales, squaring her shoulders.

——————

As she leaves the sleeping area, Jodariel glares defiantly at the somehow awake Volfred, the image of a dismayed Reader still fresh in her mind. If she cannot harm him, she will have to remind him that the Reader’s presence here is unquestionable.

He doesn’t comment on how she’s going onto the cold deck without her cloak.

——————

She can understand the incessant itching beneath one’s skin when forced into a relatively small space for a longer period of time. Even the restlessness it brings like a carriage. Jodariel for instance finds herself helping the Reader with her chores if said woman isn’t nose deep in the Book of Rites. Pamitha seems to zip this way and that, sometimes faster than Ti’zo during a Rite.

The problem is that the restlessness follows Pamitha to sleep. Either that or she really tosses so damn much while she sleeps. (Which begs the question: how hasn’t she fallen off the roof?) The only reason Jodariel’s even thinking about this is because she has the unfortunate privilege of sleeping next to the Harp. Up until this point Jodariel hasn’t noticed how crammed their sleeping space is. Perhaps they should’ve told the Crone to expand when she modified the wagon.

Or perhaps she should’ve argued against sleeping next to Pamitha. Fatigue wasn’t kind to her, turning her tongue to lead; dragging her to slumber faster than she’s comfortable, and leaving her in the limbo where her mind’s ready to sleep but her nerves are hyper-aware of her surroundings. Like when feathers happen to glide over her arm.

It’s becoming a problem. More so than Rukey kicking in his sleep.

Jodariel cracks an eye open at the feel of feathers against her arm, just in time to see Pamitha turn her back to the Demon. Without warning, Jodariel wraps her arm around Pamitha’s waist, tugging the Harp back so she’s got a firm hold on her. A startled gasp reaches her ears, and the Harp stiffens in her grasp. Jodariel feels talons scrape against her wrist, poised to dig in like needles.

_What are you doing, Jodariel?_

“Will you bloody settle?” Jodariel half-grumbles, half-whispers. The movement jostled her other arm, and she shifts it back into place against her ear. A pillow so she can sleep sideways despite her horns.

Pamitha exhales, whole body shifting with the action. Her talons ease around Jodariel's wrist, opting to hold it in a loose grasp. Jodariel flexes her fingers against the sash wrapped around Pamitha’s waist, testing. The sash is soft, the type of soft that calls to your fingers, whispering _slide over me, slide over –_

Scribes, is she _that_ tired?

“Didn’t mean to wake you, darling,” Pamitha says flippantly, yet her voice is deceptively mellow. It’s the closes thing to an _actual_ apology Jodi’s heard her say.

“Can’t wake what hasn’t slept.”

She feels rather than sees Pamitha turn her head, looking over her shoulder at Jodariel, and it’s only now that Jodariel realises the Harp’s foregone her helmet. Pamitha doesn’t say anything – not even a stab at how Jodariel always has circles around her eyes so how can one tell she hasn’t slept? All Jodariel gets is the sound of feathers scraping against the floor as Pamitha positions her other arm.

She lowers her head on it, exhaling softly. Jodariel waits a second longer to close her eye.

It’s quiet for a while. Jodariel’s almost fallen asleep when she feels feathers shift against her arm, followed by an insistent press of Pamitha’s waist against her fingers. That wakes her more than it should. She’s ready to chalk it up as an accident, but then it happens _again._

“Harp,” Jodariel warns.

“How do you lot sleep with all this rocking?” And – okay, Jodariel is really tired because it sounds like Pamitha’s _whining_. She has to blink a few times, run the words through her head once – twice for them to sink in.

“I imagine the roof would be worse.”

Pamitha scoffs. “The only reason I’m squished between a Wyrm and you, truly.”

“Don’t think about it.” Jodariel closes her eyes, scratching her nose against her sleeve before settling, and exhales. Pamitha stiffens, feathers rising against Jodariel’s skin.

“A bit hard with you literally breathing down my neck.”

“I mean the rocking.”

Silence falls between them, punctuated by a soft, “Oh.”

This time when sleep comes calling, Jodariel doesn’t feel Pamitha shift. Only somewhere between sleep and not-there-lucidity does she feel something both soft and rough drag over her wrist. Ticklish even, with two of her fingers twitching in reaction.

The last thing she remembers is the soft/rough thing cover her fingers, curling around them while the tingling along her arm subsides.

——————

(Somewhere in her dreams she hears a familiar whistle of a laugh.

Then raspy words resembling “ _Say anything, Cur dear, and I’ll shave that moustache off._ ”

The laughter stops.)

——————

The third night at sea – hopefully their _last_ – the Reader stops Jodariel from walking out onto deck for first watch. Apparently Pamitha’s taking that one. Says she even volunteered for it.

Jodariel had thought it would be a peculiar day when she woke up relatively well rested and with an armful of a still-slumbering Harp. A Harp that tends to be awake at the crack of dawn, already missing from her perch when Jodariel went on her morning rounds. Even the knee-jerk instinct to flee at the thought of _Harp in your arms,_ was quiet.

(And the burning in her stomach takes a different twist.)

And Pamitha suddenly willing to traverse the deck at night, when one could barely see her out there for more than 10 minutes during the day? Just another notch on the peculiar list for today. Right under ‘Volfred decided not to talk exclusively in riddles and metaphors today’ and just above ‘Sir Gilman teaching Zhae how to fish by shouting his methods from underwater.’

She thought the peculiarities of today would end once she lay to sleep.

Then she got an armful of feathers.

“Harp,” Jodariel hisses, tone deep in warning, “what the bloody Scribes are you doing?”

“Salvaging my share of the blanket, darling,” Pamitha says as if it’s the most obvious thing. Then Jodariel realises the tugging beneath her arms is actually Pamitha tugging the blanket.

“And you’re doing it _here_?”

“I thought that obvious.” Pamitha wraps herself in the blanket, leaving barely enough to reach Jodariel’s left side. She looks up, brow quirking at the glare Jodariel gives her. “I’m sorry, is it not logical for me to occupy Hedwyn’s space after he leaves for his watch? I could’ve sworn it is. Is that not a subject they teach you?”

Jodariel continues to glare, disbelieving. Pamitha sighs.

“Oh come on.” She quirks her brow, grin wide and dangerous, and demanding near all of Jodariel’s attention. She spares it a quick glance. “You hardly seemed to mind last night, Jodi darling.”

“You wouldn’t settle. Left alone, you’d have woken everyone up.”

“You’re exaggerating.” Pamitha clicks her tongue, grin gone in an instant. Jodariel watches as Pamitha moves to take off her helmet, feathers going behind her pointy ears, talons tugging until there’s a barely there _click_.

Here to stay then.

Jodariel settles so she’s lying on her back proper, and grumbles as she does so. “Are you planning on tossing tonight?”

“We shall see, darling.” Pamitha gives her a glance, before patting her blanket and turning to her right, back to Jodariel. If someone had told Jodariel – back when she was Captain – she would be sharing a bed with a Harp, she’s give them latrine duty for four months. Exiled Jodariel’d just glare them into the ground. Not so different than how she’s glaring at Pamitha’s backside, come to think of it.

She’s pondering it – to risk the Harp’s tossing or just keep Hedwyn company outside. Or, well –

“Turn around,” Jodariel orders. A part of her is hissing what a bad idea this is. The other part argues it’s nothing different than last night. All of her is rightly confused.

“What?” Yeah, just about the same amount of confusion. But Pamitha does turn around, leaving enough room for Jodariel to slip her arm beneath and around. She tugs, much like last night, hand splayed over Pamitha’s covered waist. Same sash. Somehow she thought the Harp’d have several, one for every day of the week.

“So you don’t toss,” is all Jodariel offers, eyes closed so she only feels eyes staring into her. “Otherwise mind the horns. I’m not responsible for injuries.”

The stare fades with a half-laugh and a click of the tongue. Pamitha shifts against her side, feathers dancing between Jodariel and the blanket until it reaches Jodariel’s uncovered side, protecting it somewhat.

Pamitha’s breathing lulls Jodariel to sleep.

——————

Morning greets her with a lurch. Sends her left shoulder into a wall, hard enough to sink in, and sends Pamitha into her horn. Jodariel concentrates on the hiss of _“Shit”_ close to her neck rather than the pulsations in her right temple or the sting in her mouth.

“Stay calm everyone. A wave just hit the ship,” Tariq voice rings clear amid the cacophony of confused voices. It’s definitely a bard thing. He could give the Academy instructors a run for their money.

“I hate the sea,” Pamitha mutters, voice muffled. Jodariel dislodges her shoulder, taking bits of wood with her. Well, at least she hasn’t broken through to the other side. The hole is easily fixable with the wood still lodged in her shoulder, and perhaps a few pieces more.

Humming, Jodariel looks over to Pamitha, trying to keep her head still less she hit her again. The Harp’s face is obscured by her wings.

“Are you all right?”

One of her wings slides down, leaving the other to cover from the nose downward. There’s a large red spot between her eyes, and the way she’s clutching at her nose leads to believe it stretches well over it. To her credit, Pamitha’s eyes are clear of tears. Jodariel recalls accidentally hitting Rukey with her horns and the Cur was in tears within seconds.

“Ask me again in five minutes.”

“Your hatred for the sea will vanish in five minutes?”

“No.” Pamitha closes her eyes, and her talons stretch to prod the spot between her eyes. She winces. “I’ll be able to see your lovely face, darling.”

The words shoot through Jodariel, waking her fully and lodging something in her throat where her words should go. She becomes painfully aware of the fact that Pamitha’s still lying on her arm, and that she’s close to her side despite Jodariel’s horns.

Then Pamitha looks at her with eyes focused and clear, and suddenly the room’s a lot smaller than it was.

——————

Then the ship lurches _again_ and Jodariel has enough time to shift to her side, back slamming against the wall. That’s the good news.

The bad news is – “That was a sea creature.” Tariq pops in only to vanish immediately after.

The worst news – Pamitha’s still in her grasp – well, it’s turned into a proper hug, what with her pressed against Jodariel’s chest, and Jodariel’s arm tight around her waist so she doesn’t slide should the ship lurch again.

Jodariel tries to concentrate on her stinging chin, where Pamitha’s forehead collided, and not the warms spreading along her neck, or how soft Pamitha’s feathers are despite being wedged between her chest and Pamitha’s face.

It almost works. Then Pamitha lets out a groan, and it vibrates right through Jodariel.

“Theyn?”

“Fucking leave me here to die,” Pamitha grits out. Jodariel carefully turns her over so she can slip away. Her hand lingers on Pamitha’s shoulder. She taps it, a fleeting movement at best, before she leaves because _sea creature?_

——————

They reach land that day. Jodariel sags against the rail, relieved to be finally done with the endless sea and being cramped in such a small place. Just as she sags, so do her shoulders rise when she feels something wet land on her face. Then again. And again.

Snow.

They’ve reached a continent covered in _snow_ ; cold enough for it to still be _snowing_. She glares at the land, and thinks of the patched-up cloak the Reader’s wearing. Thinks of the thin tunics Hedwyn insists on using until they’re nothing but rags. Thinks of a barefooted Zhae exploring excitedly. Thinks of Sir Gilman, and how all of his tales happen in a warmer sea or even sandy land on the outskirts of the Commonwealth. She thinks of crimson feathers –

(A shiver runs through her. Jodariel doesn’t feel cold.)

They aren’t prepared for this.

——————

The trek through the snow is arduous, with near constant stops to clear the path Volfred insists they take. (Barring any explanations or help of course.) The cave they found is barely deep enough to hide the wagon, but if Jodariel has to dig her friends out of the snow one more time, she’ll willingly bury herself in it.

As soon as the sun sets, Jodariel ushers them all inside the cave. There will be no patrols outside the cave, not with the wind howling and the night near pitch-black. Despite the tightness of their sleeping space, Jodariel doesn’t expect Pamitha to sleep next to her; had nearly forgotten it even happened. And yet she does, with even less grace or warning than last time.

“Again?” Jodariel hasn’t even unrolled her blanket before Pamitha snatches it and does it in the blink of an eye. Another blink and she’s wrapped beneath it like a bun, curling into Jodariel’s side which _what?_

“Have you seen the weather out there? It’s snowing, Jodi. _Snowing,_ ” Pamitha hisses, a talon coming free to poke at Jodariel’s shoulder with each word. Jodariel swipes it away. “And I have been in that snow. Almost waist deep!”

They all have. Though in Rukey and Sir Gilman’s case it had been neck deep. Ti’zo even managed to dive with only his fixed horn as a pointer to his location. He stood as a large puff-ball atop the Reader’s head afterward.

“That has nothing to do with you pointedly choosing to sleep next to me, Pamitha.” Jodariel has to twist a bit to look Pamitha in the eyes. And even then at most she gets the sight of turquoise bangs.

“Yes it does,” Pamitha shoots back, eyes shining over the rim of the blanket, voice muffled by the same.

“Enlighten me.”

Pamitha narrows her eyes, irritation flashing harmlessly. She lowers the blanket with a huff.

“You honestly haven’t noticed how you radiate heat?” The corner of her lips quirks up in time with a brow. “I’m starting to think you’ve got a fire going inside. Maybe you’re part salamander.”

There was a Captain – at a time when Jodariel only prayed she’d survive long enough to achieve the title – who preferred winter-long excursions beyond the Bloodborder. For all the frightened whispers of soldiers delegated to scouting the cliffs and twists to the north, they were overshadowed by exuberant talks of being assigned to that Captain’s unit as soon as the first hint of snow. Later on Jodariel realised it was because near all of them came back alive from such excursions, with hushes of _“barely any flocks”_ or _“scattered like Crones in the desert.”_

It wasn’t difficult to come to the conclusion that Harps dislike the cold. It’s only now, with Pamitha declaring her a bloody _heater_ that she sees just how far their dislike for the cold goes. It doesn’t make her reasoning any less absurd.

“I refuse to be your personal heater. We have blankets.” She tugs at it, just below Pamitha’s chin. For emphasis of course. There’s a shudder beneath her claws, the only warning she gets before Pamitha moves forward, snuggling – _snuggling?!_ – into Jodariel’s side.

The voice best labelled as Captain Jodariel growls in disgust in the back of her mind.

(Another is making a high-pitched noise.)

“But I’ve just found my spot, darling. Surely you’re not going to force me to move now?” She looks up beneath her lashes, goes so far as to _pout_ (?!) to get Jodariel to stay. It stops her inhale half way, leaving her breath stuck in her chest – constricting and heavy and all too warm.

Like a heater for a bloody Harp.

Jodariel frowns, teeth gritting at the thought, and moves to get up. She expects a series of reactions from Pamitha, but none of them included her actually wrapping her wings around Jodariel’s waist to keep her there.

“Harp.” She visibly grits her teeth, lips pulled back in a snarl as she glares down at stubborn teal eyes.

“No.” Jodariel raises her brows, incredulous at how – how petulant Pamitha sounds. For someone who wields her voice like she’d wield her spear in battle, to sound so petulant, so _blatantly_ petulant – and to Jodariel of all people.

Her head hurts.

“You are being childish.”

It earns her an indignant scoff. Her side twitches where talons poke lightly. “I’m being childish for wanting to sleep relatively warm? What do they teach you in that Commonwealth, darling?”

Not to let Harps near me.

To hate you lot with a passion rivalling the sun.

To not ask questions, be a good child or you’ll be sent to the Downside.

_Check. Check. Check._

“Not to drop on people and call them personal heaters,” is what she says.

“Well, they clearly don’t know what they’re doing, then. Luckily you have me to rectify such an oversight.”

“I can lift you off. You know this,” Jodariel grits out. Somehow that earns her a chuckle. Talons scrape at her side harmlessly.

“I am warming up already, Jodi –”

Her hand grabs the talons before they truly start to wander, tightening in warning. She glares down at Pamitha. “Get. Off.”

“Okay. All right.” Pamitha inhales, grin slipping, and closes her eyes. When she opens them, Jodariel’s surprised to see them pleading. “Please?”

_What?_

“I’ll keep my feathers to myself if you _really_ insist.” She removes her arms, and Jodariel has her thoughts together enough to shift so the one under her doesn’t get stuck. Honestly she’s still stumped at _Pamitha Theyn begging her to be a heater._ Or really just at the idea of _Pamitha Theyn begging for anything._

_“You know what they don’t teach little Harps? To plead.”_

“Will you stop looking at me like I’ve suggested we nest with drive imps, and say _something?_ ”

“You really hate the cold,” is what first comes to mind. Not the most helpful of things to say, but certainly the most _obvious_. Scribes, sometimes she wishes Hedwyn hadn’t found the wagon. Sometimes she wishes she just lay near the river and waited for death. Sometimes she wishes –

Then Pamitha laughs – a startled laugh, nothing like the controlled, melodious ones Jodariel’s heard – and part of her thinks _maybe it’s not all bad._

She’s too tired to argue with herself over why thinking _that_ because a _Harp_ laughed is such a bad idea. Too tired to stop Pamitha from curling into her side, feathers held close. Too tired to silence the little voice making high-pitched noise.

——————

Come morning, there’s an empty blanket at her side. Jodariel shouldn’t be surprised.

Yet she lingers, folding the blanket longer than necessary.

——————

Not three hours later she has to dig out the Harp because she went out to explore, to scout ahead or what have you, and landed on the most unstable footing possible. Of course she only realised that after the statue was already sliding from under her, succumbing under the weight of the snow and burying Pamitha underneath it.

Even with her heart beating so quickly – purely a result of moving through waist-high snow – her claws are numb as she digs, digs, digs. Shovelling snow aside while the others continue clearing a different path for the wagon. Shovelling alone so no one else gets stuck in the snow and she has more people to carry out.

Certainly not so no one could hear her call _Pamitha_ and _damn you Theyn_.

Certainly not so no one could hear a relieved _thank the Scribes_ once feathers reach out for her hand, and latch. With a heave Jodariel yanks her out from under the snow, other arm flying to her waist so they don’t topple back.

The Harp is positively quivering beneath her hand.

“You know, you have a lovely face when you don’t frown, Jodi,” Pamitha says through clanking teeth. Standing in the snow, freezing and wings wrapped around her like a blanket, and yet she still smiles proudly at her words.

Jodariel wraps her cloak around her with a grumble of _incorrigible_ and drags her back to the wagon before the Harp can say anything about that. And when she can say something about it, Jodariel plants her in front of Hedwyn’s cooking pot, bites out “Sit. Tea. Drink.” and is storming out to help with the digging.

——————

“I’m fine.”

“Of course.”

“I’m fine, Tariq.”

“Undoubtedly, Miss Jodariel.”

“Let go of my hand.”

“Just as soon as we get inside.”

Jodariel closes her eyes, and – oh doesn’t that feel lovely. The tension behind her eyes is easing up already, and she doesn’t see incessant white snow anymore. She could just stop and –

Nope.

“And we’re here.” Jodariel snaps her eyes open in time to duck as Ti’zo flutters from the kitchen to the drive imps’ hiding spot. The action pulls at the muscles on her shoulders, reminding her why she didn’t just snatch her hand from the Minstrel’s grasp. She’s pretty sure she can’t feel her claws.

That’s not good.

She feels something soft wraps around one hand, then something scratchy wraps around the other. By the time Jodariel notices what’s going on, she’s already sitting on her rub with several blankets wrapped around her, circled by the Reader and – of all people – _Pamitha._

Who’s still wearing her cloak. Which she got three days ago. Jodariel should probably take it back. But the bowl of soup is so warm in her hands, she can’t move them away. It’s so alluring. More alluring than its colour.

“I’m not feeding you, darling.” Pamitha nods at the bowl once Jodariel looks over. She raises a brow, amusement growing the longer it takes Jodariel to understand her words. Then of all the things she could’ve done, Pamitha presses her feathers to Jodariel’s forehead. The touch is… soothing. Even where talons scratch at her hairline.

“Can she get frostbite up here?” Jodariel flinches back as feathers prod between her brows. The growl withers on her tongue at the sight of Pamitha curling her wing back, shooting an apologetic smile.

“I don’t think so,” the Reader adds. She pats Jodariel on the shoulder to get her attention, and raises her free hand, covered in mismatched red and black cloth. “How many fingers am I holding?”

Jodariel stares for a moment. “You’re wearing mittens.” Jodariel furrows her brow, ignoring the Reader’s nod. “Where did you get mittens?”

“Zhae made them.” The Reader turns her hand over, and there’s a little white shape with black horns against a patch of red. The material looked itchy, and Jodariel’s hands twitch.

“Out of what?”

“You don’t wanna know, darling,” Pamitha raises her cup, same soup-coloured liquid sloshing inside, and practically cradled in her wings. Hair, free from the Highwing helmet, obscures her eyes as she sips, and Jodariel’s struck with the urge to comb it back.

It sends her mind off track enough to nearly miss the words, “Trust me on that one.”

“All right.”

Pamitha scrunches her face – the only indication she was going to spit out her soup – and out of the corner of her eye, Jodariel sees the Reader drop the green orb (was it in her lap this whole time?) And okay, yes, it’s a bit odd for her to agree with the Harp, much less imply she’s agreeing to trust her, but you know what else is odd?

The soup tastes wonderful. So really, it’s just an odd day.

Pamitha recovers from her surprise quicker, but still stares at Jodariel like she’s transformed into a Crone. “Now I really think you _did_ hit your head out there.”

——————

Shifting beneath her arm drags Jodariel awake. Rightly speaking, she doesn’t know when she fell asleep, or how. One moment she was bundled up in blankets talking to the Reader and Hedwyn, with Pamitha sitting silently next to her. The next – there are branches next to her face.

Jodariel shifts to stand up but two things stop her. One – a blanket of calm drapes over her, and her eyes dart up from the branches, a crisscross of white and brown, to the pillow tucked in between them. Two – there’s a whine when she moves her left arm, in a familiar voice that has no reason whining anywhere near Jodariel.

The branches sneak the pillow below Jodariel’s arm while she turns all of her attention to the source of the whine – Pamitha, sleeping against her stomach, face practically mushed into Jodariel’s blanket, and still bundled up in Jodariel’s cloak. Hair as dishevelled as their come, and Jodariel’s hands itch with a familiar urge.

But Pamitha isn’t the only one huddled next to Jodariel. Zhae and the Reader are lying in Pamitha’s lap, with Gilman wrapped around Ti’zo and pressing into Zhae’s side. Jodariel can hear whistle-snores behind her, and the familiar pressure of Hedwyn against her back – almost a mirror to the Harp’s position.

Even that green orb is cradled in the Reader’s grasp, thankfully the woman obscures it enough so the light doesn’t reach anyone’s eyes.

The only thing more ridiculous than their sleeping arrangement is the idea that the branches pat Jodariel’s head before slipping away. But that’s a figment of her dreams, so it doesn’t count.

(Neither does the purr pressed into her stomach as Jodariel’s claws run through Pamitha’s hair – simply so she doesn’t tug at them in her sleep.)

——————

(“Reader, perhaps it’s wise to invest in shoes for Zhae and the Harp.”

The Reader looks away from the first sign of grass on this mountain, looks away from basking in the warmth they’ve solely missed these past five days. Looks away confused, so Jodariel nudges her chin to the two in question.

Zhae was hopping exuberantly from one colourful bush to the other, while Pamitha’s following her at a reasonable distance to not get swept up in Zhae’s enthusiasm. Jodariel expected Ti’zo to follow Zhae once they’ve announced they’ve found grass, but Pamitha strolled after her, tossing one of her grins at Jodariel’s confused stare.

The grass makes it painstakingly obvious both of them are barefoot. And the image of Zhae’s near blue toes flashes in her mind. The image of a shaking Pamitha –

“I’ll try to get some from Ron,” the Reader says.

“Thank you.”)

——————

It’s looking at the statues scattered around Mount Alodiel that spring forth a realisation.

Sleeping bundled together once was out of necessity. Twice was allegedly logic but, honestly, more of an accident. The third time – and subsequent fourth and fifth – cannot be anything but pure obligation ( _born from what?_ ) to keep the Harp warm. What use is a frozen Harp in a Rite?

The logical (alarming) conclusion is: _This is becoming a thing._

Honestly she’d rather the sparring become a thing instead of this.

(That’s a straight up lie.)

But there is the Rite – the _Liberation_ Rite, against another triumvirate with a _Demon_ and Rukey’s freedom hangs on the line, and she has no time to divide her attention to anything else.

——————

Afterward she has nothing but time; it –

_“They are out there killing our people, and you fill her head with rubbish!”_

_“You didn’t call it rubbish before.”_

_“That was before they murdered my friends. Nearly lopped my head off.”_

_“She has a right to know both sides of them. We all should, less we fixate on what war shaped us into.”_

_“It didn’t shape anything. Just proved what savages they are.”_

_“Truly? And did it show what killers we are? Because I didn’t marry a killer.”_

_“I have not changed.”_

_“That is the biggest lie you’ve yet to say.”_

_“I won’t have her sympathise for our enemy.”_

_“She’s sympathising with victims.”_

_“They are not victims in this!”_

_“Both sides are!”_

“Jodi?”

– It does little.

Jodariel looks down at Zhae, curled in her lap, and Sir Gilman similarly bundled up in _her_ lap. Zhae near fell asleep in her raiments, and while Sir Gilman fared better, managing to help Jodariel get them off the girl, he quickly fell asleep as well.

“Go back to sleep.”

——————

“You seem pensive. Pensive isn’t a good look for you,”

Hedwyn smiles, looking away from his cup, and up at Jodariel. His perch atop the remains of a garden wall makes it so he doesn’t have to crane his neck so much to look at her face. “You’re right. Maybe I need some pointers on how to brood properly. Willing to help, Jodi?”

_Cheeky_. “I don’t brood.”

“You do.” Jodariel glares. His smile doesn’t waver. “So well, might I add.”

“Quick save. Learned that from –” she pauses, words stuck in her throat. She has gone through grief, time and again. She had shouldered it and moved on, as is expected of a soldier on the Bloodborder. Yet, this isn’t like that.

She’s not grieving a death but a departure – and part of her scolds her still for her selfishness, for what right does she have to grieve on someone else’s freedom? But another part strains at the pressure in her chest; uncomfortable, like when her hand went for a weapon at her hip in the early days of the Downside. Reaching for something that’s missing.

“Yeah.” He looks up at the blank sky. “I miss him too.”

“Who says I miss the annoying Cur?”

“Jodi.” He says in prompt. Jodariel looks at him, and hates the knowing glint in his eyes, the small, kind smile on his face. Hates how in-tuned they’ve become. (Not really.)

“It’s all right to miss friends. Means we’ve got a good bond with them. Means they –” he shrugs in that helpless way he did when she caught him covering for his partner’s shoddy form. “Well, that they mattered to us. And I’m sure Rukey misses us just as much.”

Jodariel barks a laugh. “He’s probably bawling his eyes out just thinking about your cooking.”

“Or the comfortable bedding on your horns.”

“That never happened.”

“Uh-huh.” Hedwyn’s hiding a smile behind his cup, badly at that.

“Maybe once,” Jodariel allows, “when we were drunk.”

(It was more than once. When he tried to offer comfort as she was changing along with the Downside, tried to run his mouth until he said something that actually _was_ comforting, and quickly found that silence helped the most.)

Hedwyn raises his brows, ready to argue her claim, when a shout from the Reader cuts him off. She’s sitting by the bonfire and playing cards against Volfred and Ti’zo, with the Minstrel overseeing. (Though how effective that is with his eyes closed is dubious.)

“You said you know Six Ways, Seven Outs?” the Reader asks, shuffling cards. Jodariel has half a mind to slap them out because that – _that_ game is the easiest way to lose the clothes on your back.

“I recall saying something, yes.”

“Help a girl out. These two are a menace, and Sandra’s being as helpful as distractions go.” The Reader nudges the Orb by her feet, and Jodariel could swear it flares up at the touch.

“Well…” He looks at Jodariel. _Mother hen._

“Go. Save our Reader from being indebted to a Sap and an imp. I’m fine,” she stresses at his frown. Nudges him down and toward the bonfire before he can say anything else. His long look tells her enough anyway, and a part of her heart swells at his worry.

She aims to take his seat at the wall, but stops, claws scrapping against rocks. She spots Pamitha sitting on one of the balconies, well away from the wagon, looking out into the land below. Pensive, like Hedwyn.

Jodariel realises she’s moving only when she’s already at the base of the house, when the green of Pamitha’s moonshine flask shines clear in the moonlight. And still Pamitha doesn’t notice her.

( _You can leave. What are you doing? Leave._ )

Pamitha doesn’t notice until Jodariel lands behind her.

Until she says, “Not a card person.”

Jodariel watches as her back coils, as her feathers straighten so they resemble a valley of red blades, as she whips around one arm raised. Watches as she falters, as her feathers flatten minutely, as her eyes dance about her, unsure they’re seeing Jodariel – really, it’s not that odd for her to seek the Harp out. It’s not.

It is.

_(She is not one of your own after a fight.)_

_(And who exactly are her own anymore?)_

“Pardon?” Pamitha breathes out, the confusion in her voice reminding Jodariel of a dark room and feathers along her arm, of a soft waist beneath her palm, of a purr –

Jodariel slams that thought into a box, packing it so tight, it’s ready to be shipped down into the Downside with minimum charge. But it leaves her with a restless energy that drives her forward, even at the expense of walking into horrid moonshine stench just to lean on the balustrade.

“You are not a card person,” Jodariel repeats, eyes drawn to the bonfire and the Reader holding her head in her hands, Hedwyn laughing next to her. “Either that or you’re sparing the Reader even greater defeat.”

There’s rustling behind her, punctuated by an airy chuckle. It floats between them.

“This sounds like you’re insinuating I am good at cards.” Talons tap against glass. “I’m on the fence on whether to be flattered or insulted, Jodi darling.”

“Why insulted?” Jodariel looks back, brow raised. Pamitha flashes a familiar, playful grin, settling back into a familiar mask.

“That you consider me the type to dabble in vices such as cards, gambling.”

“It’s your deck.”

“Is it?” Pamitha leans forward, planting a feathered arm between them, brows raised in a challenge – purely for the sake of it, she’s learned. Just to poke at Jodariel. On any other day Jodariel might take it with a glare. But after the gruelling Rite they’ve had, finished not three hours ago, Jodariel finds she has even less patience for it.

“I was hoping we’d have a normal conversation. They are possible. You just don’t have to be –”

“Charming? Delightful? Clever? Gra –”

“Vague. Evasive. Annoying.”

Pamitha blinks, eyes wide in disbelief. She shifts so she’s sitting cross-legged on the balustrade and facing Jodariel proper, bottle of moonshine cradled in her lap. “Annoying? Back up, when have I ever been annoying?”

Jodariel scoffs. “When you returned from your little ‘talk’ with the Harps, your face screamed ‘I told you so.’”

“That was completely justified.”

“Then there’s dropping on me. Calling me a heater.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, darling.” And the moon might be casting shadows over Pamitha’s face, but it doesn’t take much to spot the dark colour on Pamitha’s cheeks. Yet she stubbornly refuses to break eye contact, willing Jodariel to drop her accusations. _Tit for tat_ – and Jodariel knows the song well.

Pamitha’s the first to break, lips stretching into a smirk. It doesn’t feel like a surrender.

“Fine, you caught me –” Pamitha leans back, and it’s then that Jodariel notices just how close they’ve been. She frowns at the lapse. “I favour cards over boredom. However, I’m not in the mood tonight.”

“Volfred is the only one who is.” And on cue the Sap laughs, drawing their attention. The Reader is lying face down on the floor, and Jodariel straightens at the sight, poised to jump. Feathers tickle at her arm, distracting enough for the Reader to get up and wave her arms emphatically at Hedwyn, who’s shrugging.

Nothing serious.

“Speaking of – what do you make of this Plan of his?” Feathers drag upward, leaving goose flesh in their wake until Jodariel relents and turns with a flinch. Pamitha’s face is serious, shadows sharp along her features, and Jodariel’s mind fills in the missing –

The white mask high on her brows as she’s fixing it in place.

The copper helmet, visor easily sliding in place to hide the eyes, mark of the Highwings etched into the metal.

“Honestly,” Pamitha says.

“I…” Jodariel sighs, the sound coming from deep in her throat. “I don’t know. I’ve spent too long here to hope now.”

“Yet the Cur’s free. Back in your Commonwealth.”

“ _My_ Commonwealth?”

“It certainly isn’t mine. The place’s is dreadful. I don’t understand how you lived there, darling.” She hides behind a light tone, hides behind whispers of humour, an amused shake of her head she makes when Zhae draws along the side of the wagon. Hides and hides, yet her eyes are searching, _asking_.

“So you don’t want to return,” Jodariel observes.

“I’m saying I wouldn’t _stay_ there. Especially not with Volfred’s little rebellion project. You people have enough shit going on in there as is.” She takes a large swing of the flask, and when she’s done, her brows pinch as if she’s forcing something down along with the liquid. Jodariel’s hand inches closer to take the flask, but the Harp leaves it in her lap, hides it behind red feathers.

“No, I’d go as far away from there as possible.” And she may be looking at Jodariel, but she’s worlds away, perhaps even in another time. Jodariel wouldn’t say it, not even if you bribed her with freedom, but the wishful lilt in her tone – it suits Pamitha more than the nonchalance. Shows the person hidden behind this façade of a Harp, whispers of how actually _young_ she is.

All too soon teal eyes focus back on her, and Jodariel finds herself saying, “If we’re free.”

“Miracles seem to be drawn to our lovely Reader. Just take us for example – we haven’t killed each other.” Pamitha gestures between them, looking all too pleased.

“Yet.” Not that the urge is particularly there. It should be alarming, but all Jodariel does is shrug. “Apparently we’ll have time to do that.”

“I’d rather we didn’t. It’d be…” Pamitha tilts her head, eyes roaming over Jodariel, taking her in as if for the first time. It makes the back of her neck heat up, the hairs on her arms stand and the base of her horns itch. She’s _this_ close to telling the Harp to clarify when she seemingly decides on a word.

“A shame,” she says. Her smile turns soft, and the shadows that cut her face sharply turn soft, somehow, as if Pamitha willed them with magic. She says _a shame_ but those aren’t the words that reach Jodariel, couldn’t be the words that poke at her chest like daggers, drag down her back like chilled metal.

She thinks of her mother, suddenly. Of her stories, of her Harps. Thinks of the words _beautiful_ and _elegant_ and she can’t decipher this. Not now, not in full view of Pamitha.

“You’d need a new heater,” she deflects. She means for it to sound light, but her voice barely comes out at all, whispering a secret atop a secluded balcony. In moonlight.

“True but I wasn’t thinking about that. Losing you would generally be a shame. Scandalous, I know,” she adds with a chuckle, unashamed in face of Jodariel’s surprise. Honestly, she’s dancing on the idea that Pamitha’s drunk. Tipsy at least, with her tongue so loose she’s skirting to and from blunt. Voicing things she’d skirt around for days.

“A toast,” Pamitha says suddenly, flask extended between them. “To not killing each other.”

Or maybe she’s tired. Tired of skirting. Tired of keeping it all it, having this weight like an armour, dragging you down and stretching behind like a second shadow. Tired so much she’s confiding in Jodariel of all people – a soldier, a _Captain_ that killed countless of her sisters.

Jodariel looks down at the flask, at the green liquid slushing inside.

And maybe Jodariel is tired, too. Maybe she’s been tired before the Blackwagon, before the Downside, before a net of little Harps was dragged back to her. Maybe she’s been tired since her mother stopped singing, stopped trying to distract them with little stories whenever Jodariel visited. Tired of being Captain Jodariel. Tired of being a daughter of the Commonwealth.

So she wraps her claws around the flask, careful not to catch Pamitha’s feathers; says, “May I have only blunt objects in your presence,” and takes a long swing. It burns down her throat, the aftertaste prickles her tongue and she thinks, _If peace tastes this awful, no wonder they don’t use it._

But Pamitha laughs – really laughs, bending over with feathers covering her face and her shoulders shaking and Jodariel thinks, _Maybe they just drank the wrong peace._

——————

Realises – after they both get down from that balcony, the flask still deceptively full yet both of them feeling lighter – that she’s in some deep shit.

Thinks –with Pamitha swaying closer to Jodariel at every third step, and she herself not flinching at the proximity – maybe it’s still salvageable.

Realises – with Pamitha snoring next to her, wings thrown over Jodariel’s waist before they even settled proper, because Jodariel will not be held responsible for letting a drunk Harp sleep on the roof and fall to her death – maybe she doesn’t want to salvage it.

Thinks – with her mother’s words ringing in her ears – maybe it’s not such a bad thing to want.

——————


	3. Let the only sound be the overflow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therein lies the problem, doesn’t it? She’s not what Jodariel expects.  
> She has to wonder when Pamitha had ever done anything she expected.

_Some realisations we keep to ourselves, eh, kiddo_ is what her father told her.

Of course, he said that when he caught her with a bundle of cookies meant for the morning after, but she’s found the words applicable for many occasions.

——————

“Jodi darling, are you busy?”

“Evidently,” Jodariel says, not bothering to turn around. Since they’re stuck here for the foreseeable future, Jodariel has the time to fix their canopy over the side of the wagon. Except the damned thing refuses to stretch, and holding the tools is frustratingly difficult.

“Well that thing’s not going anywhere, and I happen to have a more pressing matter. Which just so happens to fall under your qualifications, or so I’m told. And well, it’s time –”

“Harp,” Jodariel grits out. She turns around, irritation flaring against her forehead, and it flies out like a leaf to the wind. All because of the Harp. Or rather, how she’s cradling her right wing, which seems a tad lower than usual, and there are scrapes over her face and shoulders –

“What happened?” Jodariel steps down from her stool, hand outstretched before she can stop herself. Pamitha looks hesitant, despite being the one to seek Jodariel out. But she inhales and steps forward, under the half open canopy. Jodariel doesn’t touch her, not until Pamitha lowers her other wing, not until she’s a step closer than arm’s reach.

“I suspect it’s dislocated,” Pamitha says, quietly, as careful as Jodariel’s running her claws over the feathers. No wounds or cuts, but Pamitha inhales sharply once Jodariel presses above her elbow. Bruises definitely, but anything else will have to wait until it’s reset.

“You came to me?”

“Yes,” Pamitha says simply. When Jodariel lets the silence stretch, not entirely so she could prod further up her right wing, Pamitha clarifies with a huff, “Hedwyn told me you’ve the most experience with wounds.”

Jodariel inclines her head in agreement. When you’ve spent over a decade at the Border, longer still wandering the Downside, it helps to know how to keep yourself going. And the Downside tends to test her knowledge of medicine at every turn, but she’s got a handle on it. Hesitantly if anything. But she’d dare not speak the words. Tempting the Downside isn’t a smart idea.

She snatches her cloak from a stack of boxes and spreads it on the ground before Pamitha. She offers a hand, which Pamitha takes reluctantly, and slowly guides her to lie down on her back. Sidestepping, Jodariel crouches on Pamitha’s right side and holds out her hand expectantly, keeping it as close to the ground as possible.

“What happened?” Jodariel asks once the wing’s in her grasp. With a careful slowness she extends it, keeping a close eye on Pamitha’s expression, thumb pressing down on shifting feathers less they slip from her grasp.

“Nothing.”

“This is a lot for nothing.”

“Does it matter?”

“You –” Jodariel stops, and counts to five. “You suspect it’s dislocated but what about broken bones? Bruises? If I know what happened, I could avoid hurting you further.”

A huff that has nothing to do with Jodariel stretching the wing to its full length. Her thumb swipes comfortingly along the inner feathers, as her other hand presses into her elbow.

“I fell,” Pamitha deadpans. “In a ruined house. The floor looked deceptively sturdy.”

“You fell on your wing?”

“Yes.” Jodariel hums, noncommittedly, and Pamitha looks at her, irritation shining in her eyes and pulling her lips downward. Jodariel stares back until the Harp relents with a click of her tongue. “Fine. I tripped. These boots –” Pamitha kicks the ground, the dark leather of her boots scrapping, “are horrible. And I don’t mean just the fashionable kind of horrible.”

Jodariel makes a thoughtful noise, eyes back to the wing. Steadily she moves Pamitha’s arm above shoulder height, wings tight in her grasp, while her claws carefully slip to cradle the elbow.

“Walking on them is a pain.”

“Physical pain?”

“How much must your soul suffer for it to become physical?”

Jodariel raised her brow, lets her eyes travel from her wing to Pamitha’s face. “So your wounded soul made you trip like a fledgling.”

“Not the phrasing I’d use, darling. In fact, I’d rather you keep this –”

“This will hurt.” Is all the warning Jodariel gives before she pops the shoulder back in its socket. Credit where credit is due Pamitha closes her eyes, clenches her teeth, and hisses out expletives, rather than jump out of her skin or yank her wing back. She inhales sharply once Jodariel touches her shoulder, but calms the longer Jodariel massages the area.

“Better?” Jodariel asks once teal eyes flutter open.

“That was needlessly rude, Jodi.” Pamitha straightens and follows Jodariel up, albeit carefully. She rolls her shoulder, shakes her wing and flexes it this way and that. It looks all right. No odd contusions on her back – save for the four long, thin swipes between her shoulder blades. Jodariel’s arm flares, phantom pain digging in and scorching up, leaving a bloodied mess even the Downside has yet to take from her, no matter how her body changes. Leaving –

Talon marks.

_Betrayer_ a cold voice hisses, reminiscent of sharp talons and red eyes. White, hot anger flares in Jodariel’s stomach, vicious and so sudden Jodariel barely clamps her teeth on a growl, guttural and raw. Instead, she breathes in – counting down the pieces of her father’s uniform. By the time she reaches his boots, she’s got a new set of holes in her cloak and her claws are numb.

In a deceptively steady voice she says, “Ease up on it.”

Pamitha hums absently. Jodariel’s eyes finally move from Pamitha’s back, and find her staring at her wing, thoughts worlds away. Just like on that moonlit balcony. Except now there aren’t any shadows to hide the melancholy, draped over like a fresh coat of feathers.

“Pamitha.” Her eyes snap to Jodariel, surprised for the briefest of moments, before she hides it behind nonchalance. Jodariel nods to her shoulder. “I won’t tell anyone.”

She might’ve gotten a small smile compared to the ones Pamitha flaunts around, but those don’t say _thank you_ like she’s snatched the words and pressed them to Jodariel’s chest.

——————

She still hasn’t deciphered whether she was angry because of the memories those four talon marks bring forth, or because Tamitha inflicted it on her own sister, or because they mar Pamitha Theyn’s back – act as a remind whenever she moves, whenever she shifts just so.

It’s another thing they have in common: scars from Harps. A part of her would rather they didn’t. So vehemently it sends a shiver down her back.

——————

(Bits of conversations float through the window. Hazard of fixing a canopy above a window, she supposes, and Jodariel’s not versed in the art of tuning everything out. Especially when her frustration rises with each new problem.

She catches the tail end of Zhae’s tale when the canopy finally gives and spreads fully without breaking apart. Catches _and she dove after me, like Ti’zo does when he finds fish_ and stops fiddling with her tattered cloak.

Stops to hear _and you both fell?_ To hear _and we landed hard – oh, I think her shoulder didn’t like the fall –_

Stops to realise they’re talking about Pamitha.

To realise _I tripped_ had turned into the oddest lie she’s heard. Odd for what it hides. Odd because she can’t fathom why Pamitha would lie about saving Zhae from a fall, and instead take a stab at her pride. She expected the opposite.

Therein lies the problem, doesn’t it? She’s not what Jodariel expects.

She has to wonder when Pamitha had ever done anything she expected.)

——————

Fishing isn’t something Jodariel has much experience with. She’s never found the peace of mind to sit still and wait for fish to catch her bait – ironic as that is, considering she’s perfectly fine sitting watch for long periods of time. She caught her fish with a net in the Downside, until she met Hedwyn and let him do it in her stead.

And she’s certain he never fished like this.

She’s not sure whose idea was it. Just that Ti’zo came flying for her, anxiously chirping. She followed him to a lake – the surface reflecting a gradient of blue and pink – and the group trying to keep Hedwyn from flying into the lake, dragged by whatever fish they’ve caught. Jodariel had thought it would be easy to drag it out.

Now her hooves are dug into the ground, her hands burn from holding the rod and rope, and she’s got three others holding her back. (Most surprisingly of all, Pamitha was the second to push her back when her hooves slid on the ground. The first being Hedwyn.)

“Hold steady, Jodariel,” the Reader says, arms tight around one of hers, trying to help with the fishing rod, but her fingers barely skim its surface.

“She’s fine. Save your prayers for us,” Pamitha grits. Her wings tighten around Jodariel’s waist, press in an effort to move her back, further away from the lake and the alleged fish. Yet they don’t move an inch, much to the Harp’s irritation. “Darling, I don’t know if you’ve noticed but your muscles are quite heavy.”

“It’s why we’re not wet,” Hedwyn argues, holding her other arm and pulling with a grunt. It’s a miracle the rope hasn’t broken. Or it’s been magicked. Or it’s just another quirk of the Downside. Along with oddly coloured lakes, never-ending sea storms, peculiar weather patterns and overgrown, stubborn fish.

Ti’zo chirps somewhere above.

“We drop it, we don’t have dinner,” the Reader answers. And on that note –

“Brace,” Jodariel warns. With a rumbling war cry, she pulls at the rod, drags the rope over her shoulder and heaves. It gives with alarming ease. Jodariel thinks the rope finally broke before the momentum sends her off balance. Her hooves slide against the ground, and she falls back, dragging everyone with her, loud shrieks scattering around her like dust. And actual dust.

She notices two things when the dust settles. One – they’ve caught a sea creature that’s twice the size of the Blackwagon, and it’s helplessly flopping on the lakeshore, three heads (!!!) snapping in confusion. Two – she’s laying on someone’s arm and that someone has very sharp fingers, so using the powers of deductions it can only be –

“Jodariel, please for the love of the Saint, get off my wing.”

Jodariel jumps off, and it sends her rolling to her left. Unfortunate, as it means she lands on top of the Harp, with her hand slapping Hedwyn on the leg. She can’t rightly press down into his leg without hurting him so she basically falls on top of Pamitha. A huff scratches against her ear, her cheek, and it’s partly from her weight but also holds hints of amusement.

Jodariel doesn’t think she’s ever felt this warm in her life, save for the incident involving jam in the markets when she was five. But she doesn’t talk about that. She’s definitely not gonna talk about this either. Not on your life.

There’s another breath, a would-be chuckle except there isn’t enough air for it, and then – “I’m flattered but I didn’t mean fall on me,” Pamitha practically breathes into Jodariel’s ear, and the heat doubles. Is it too late to wish for the Downside to swallow her? Maybe the sea creature’s carnivorous?

“Sorry.” Jodariel rises, studiously keeping her eyes away from Pamitha, while also studiously trying not to step on any part of her. Thankfully, if the beast hasn’t taken everyone’s attention, an enthusiastic Sir Gilman strolling onto the scene does.

(And still whenever she glances at the Harp, Jodariel finds her looking away, as if she was caught staring.)

——————

Thanks to Sir Gilman’s prowess at underwater languages – or perhaps thank the Scribes that the creature they caught spoke the same language as the Wyrm-knight – they now have several buckets of fish instead of one overgrown creature. And they had to promise not to fish in that lake, but it’s a minor thing.

It’s easy enough for Pamitha to laugh off the blunder, spinning it into a hilarious tale. And it is funny – the way she hyperboles this, prolongs their tug of war to obscene lengths, and adds a dramatic flair to Jodariel basically rolling over her. But it also doesn’t help when you’re trying to forget about it.

Doesn’t help when her every word reminds Jodariel of the whisper of words against her ear. Doesn’t help when Jodariel relives the descriptions – relives the feeling of Pamitha pressed against her, no fog of fatigue to hide behind. Just the warmth and the soft feathers against her arm and the heat they drag to the surface, the realisation _she’s screwed._

_What is wrong with you?_

Jodariel doesn’t want to answer.

Instead she’ll wait for the others to disperse with their duties before approaching the Harp. Pamitha’s amused to see her, no doubt has a tease at the tip of her tongue. It’s a good thing Jodariel cuts her off – demands, “Get up.”

Which doesn’t stop her in the slightest. No, it just gives her different fodder. “Oh, tired of falling on me? Want to flip the tables? I’ll have you know, I need more flattery to swoon properly, Jodi darling.”

Jodariel glares until the Harp stands as requested. Still maddeningly amused, however. She extends her hand. Pamitha just glances down at it, then up at Jodariel with a raised brow.

“Your right wing. To check that shoulder of yours.” Pamitha raises both of her brows, so high they disappear beneath her bangs, and the smile stretching on her face is definitely not something Jodariel wants to deal with. “Now, Harp.”

“Aw, look at you caring,” Pamitha coos, far too pleased with herself. She extends her wing, and despite her air of amusement, her eyes follow Jodariel’s hands as she prods here and there. They stay on her as Jodariel moves to inspect her shoulder, under the bonfire’s light.

“The less likely you are to fly, the more likely you are to pester me.”

“As if my delightful presence pesters anyone.”

“Not anyone. Just me.”

Pamitha clicks her tongue. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re out to hurt my feelings, darling.”

Jodariel gives one last press against Pamitha’s shoulder, before declaring, “Your shoulder’s fine.”

She leaves before Pamitha can crack another joke, something along the lines of _fine just like the rest of me_. Jodariel’s especially not in the mood tonight, even if her mind’s playing with the idea of agreeing with the Harp just to see the look on her face.

——————

What’s wrong with her?

She doesn’t know what they are.

——————

Jodariel wakes with a headache, stench of the bog and hazy fog distant in her mind, and stretches her hand only to grasp at something soft. Dragging it down, Jodariel comes face to face with a cloak, a similar shade to what she’s lying on, with a geometric design that amounts to no shape in particular.

Standing, she flaps it and it skirts her ankles, tickles at her hooves. Too long for anyone else. It also seems suspiciously wide enough to cover her shoulders. And it was left where she was bound to find it.

“It was left for you,” Tariq says, and he smiles like the obviousness isn’t lost on him.

“And do you know by whom?”

He strums his lute, a caress than any actual plan to play. His other hand flies to his hat, lowering it against the morning sun, even if he’s sitting in the shade and the sun hesitantly skirts his boots. His smile turns secretive and apologetic at the same time.

“It would be impossible for me to say.” Is all Jodariel gets out of him. Though she catches his eyes glancing upward, to the wagon’s horn, and it’s as good a non-answer as she can expect.

——————

And the Harp shooting glances at her during breakfast, fleeting and when she thought Jodariel’s attention was elsewhere, turns that non-answer into a full blown question. Not an answer but a question. Or rather a repetition of a question.

Why why why why why why _why_

By midday the repetition puts her in a sour mood, has her damn near breaking the baskets she’s carrying, so she changes it. Turns the repetition into a solid thing, a concise question she can fixate on right along the feelings she’s ignoring but isn’t but is:

What is her game?

——————

Then she remembers _we landed hard – oh, I think her shoulder didn’t like the fall_ and thinks perhaps Pamitha’s not playing a game at all. Thinks of the four talon scars along her back. Thinks of _I’m not feeding you, darling_ but she did take away her empty bowl before it slipped from numb claws, much to Jodariel’s chagrin. She did help the Reader turn her around so Jodariel doesn’t fall unceremoniously to the floor, exhaustion pilling on.

Thinks of a moonlit night, of a hasty toast on the balustrade between drunk and lucid, between mad and accountable. Thinks _may we not kill each other_ and the bitter sting on her tongue. Even if she won’t speak the observations, won’t give them form, she won’t rightly ignore they exist, can’t ignore how they dance around her mind, like flies or birds or – or –

Or a breath against her ear.

Perhaps this is an olive branch, to grow and weave through her expectations of ridicule and animosity – the latter of which has been lying like ash beneath a flame. If Pamitha wished to gloat, she’d have brought it up by now if not the moment she saw Jodariel step inside with the new cloak slung over her shoulders. She would make a spectacle of it, not hide her looks like a shy child.

_A shy child with a –_

It is an olive branch, then. Jodariel holds it in her hand and – and that’s as far as she’s got.

——————

(On a more petulant note – how did Pamitha even get this cloak?)

——————

“Come on you blasted little – no, don’t uncork it – _No!_ ”

It’s all Jodariel gets as a warning before something comes falling in front of her as she enters the wagon. She snatches it on instinct, belatedly remembering her claws are caked with mud. Whatever it is, it doesn’t slip from her grasp. However, now she has a flask of familiar green liquid held before her eyes. She raises her brows, eyes darting around and land on Pamitha, wing outstretched as if to catch it with –

Are those drive imps munching on her other wing?

“This isn’t what it looks like,” she says, shoving the imps off with a growl not unlike the Highwings Jodariel fought. They just flutter back up to their nook, a cacophony of chirps and purrs erupting.

“It looks like a mess.”

Pamitha looks her over slowly. “So do you.”

Jodariel glares. “Why are you pestering the imps?”

“I’d argue they’re pestering me –” Pamitha looks up at the sound of metal clanking, and she promptly drops her sentence to wave her wings at the imps. Who are more than happy to ignore her, as if used to her presence.

“Don’t eat that! No. Drop it. _Drop it,_ ” Pamitha stresses, wing raised, talons pointed in warning. Jodariel steps in further, sees a flash of yellow and red before an imp munches on it, followed by two more, and Pamitha shouts, “I need that whole, you shits!”

But the imps only hurdle more around it completely obscuring it from view. Truly the only thing shining through the darkness are their eyes – some wide, some squinted in amusement, some curious. Pamitha lets out a deep noise, somewhere between a growl and a hiss. It scrapes against Jodariel like talons, and she takes a step back less actual talons start swiping.

Pamitha mumbles something under her breath, but the only thing Jodariel can make out is _“give me patience.”_ Jodariel can sympathise – hurdling those little guys is a feat without Ti’zo, and drove Jodariel one step closer to insanity. Bribery is the only way Rukey managed to lure them –

A thought snaps. Jodariel quickly stuffs the moonshine into her bag, ruffling about until she finds the little pocket and the cloth wrap inside. A last minute inclusion to her list, added only because she had to fish Zhae out of a tree on her way out.

“Give me your wing,” Jodariel says, carefully taking out the cloth. She unwraps it delicately above Pamitha’s wing, and tilts it so a few green speckled black berries fall down. Pamitha’s quick enough to catch those tumbling over her wing, letting out an inquisitive hum.

“To bribe them,” Jodariel explains. A speck of mud slides off her bangs and into her eye. Jodariel leaves to wash her face before more falls onto the floor and she has to clean that as well.

By the time she’s done, and has sorted the gathered ingredients, the drive imps have settled and their cacophony is replaced by Gilman. The Wyrm is enthusiastically rattling about something or other outside. One glance shows him lovingly coiled around his insignia, practically rubbing his face against it. Another shows Pamitha standing by the door, looking equal measures amused and uncomfortable, and just nodding along with his praise.

Yet she snaps out of it the instant Jodariel’s outside, extending her wing expectantly. “My flask, if you please, Jodi.”

Ah yes, it’s still in the bag. But truth be told she’d much rather they talk about Sir Gilman praising Pamitha from sea to heaven and back. She leans on the wagon, arms crossed and head tilted, hoping the Harp could read the question.

The frown and eye roll tells her all she needs to know.

“He woke me up trying to get it,” Pamitha deadpans. She raises her wing higher, near shoving it in Jodariel’s face and repeats, in a saccharine tone, “My flask, darling.”

Just for the tone Jodariel’s tempted to throw her the flask, but in the end politeness won out – or maybe just the idea that Pamitha was annoyed enough to argue with a bunch of drive imps and somehow lost her flask to them in the process – so she delivered the flask without a fuss.

——————

“By the way,” Pamitha says, an afterthought, eyes inspecting the moonshine for imp fur, “mud doesn’t suit you, darling.”

Jodariel argues mud doesn’t suit anyone, but what she says is: “Kindness suits you.”

It’s only as the words linger in the air that she realises how true it is, how she means them with everything in her and it _terrifies her_. The startled look on Pamitha’s face only heightens the feeling, but the blush slowly covering the Harp’s cheeks has an entirely opposite effect and that – _that_ –

That has her heart beating against her chest like a ram. Has her _wanting._ Jodariel makes a hasty exit to the wagon, not even sure she voiced an excuse.

——————

_What happened to keeping it to yourself, Jodi?_

——————

Pamitha avoids her for the remainder of the day. A small mercy.

——————

Sparring doesn’t calm her as it should. Doesn’t keep her mind on one thing. Doesn’t stop her from going back to _Kindness suits you_ and the blush on Pamitha’s face. Doesn’t help her claim the beating against her chest is due to evading Sir Gilman’s swipes. Doesn’t do much of anything except give her an outlet for her frustration.

It’s something at least. She’s snapped too many needles patching up her old cloak into something resembling useful, and was one needle away from tearing it apart and letting the imps have at it.

But the Reader barely starts _uh_ _guys_ when the world shifts and blurs, greens turning to brown to the multitude of colours of the wagon, and up becomes down and Jodariel finds herself lying upside-down, drive imps gazing at her curiously from above. By the sound of a xylophone and bell ringing and _Quite a whirlwind,_ Gilman had landed in a far worse manner.

“Sandra, can you hear me?” the Reader’s voice rings from above, then to her right as she rolls onto her knees. The woman’s nervously tapping against the orb, mumbling more questions without as much as a visual response.

It would seem Jodariel doesn’t even get an outlet for her frustration. But she gives it a fleeting thought. The Reader takes precedence. Jodariel puts her hand on the Reader’s shoulder, to ground her at the shaky _she’s not there._ And Jodariel must say, she didn’t miss the look of fear on the Reader – no, she’d much rather it stayed buried in the desert half a lifetime ago.

——————

Hours later tell that the wraith is very much there, just ignoring them all. Or well, forcefully slamming a metaphorical door in their faces isn’t called ‘ignoring’ but she’d rather not throw the Reader into another emotional spiral. She’s barely dragged her out of the last one, and she had to use Rukey’s horrible puns to do it.

She hopes the Cur’s sneezing back in the Commonwealth.

“Come, we should make that ridiculous dessert of yours.” Jodariel all but hoists the woman out of her seat. Sir Gilman catches the orb as it slips down, rolling it back under the table with the Book of Rites – blue and red tumbling with dimmed green, and oh, they’re still in the raiments. She should change, but she fears the Reader would crumble – physically – if Jodariel released her.

“We nearly burned the kitchen last time,” the Reader points out, whispers of humour slipping in like a breath of fresh air.

“A mistake we won’t repeat.”

——————

(Hedwyn comes in to two ruined pans but also an edible dessert and the Reader laughing freely.

The fact that she’s laughing because Jodariel has dough all over her face is irrelevant.)

——————

Jodariel’s not sure who exactly started this mess. She’s sure _Dessert and stories are like Scribes and chapters_ was the flint, with the Reader being the branches. Everyone else was more than happy to provide the wind for the sparks to catch into flames. That’s not the mess in question – it’s been too long since the Reader told them any stories from her books.

The mess is whoever suggested scary stories around the bonfire beneath the starless sky. The mess is Pamitha bloody Theyn sprouting some excuse to sit against Jodariel’s back. _“To enhance the experience, darling”_ isn’t even a half-formed excuse but the Reader started talking and Jodariel can’t bring herself to cut her off by standing. So she’s stuck with a Harp against her back and listening to scary stories.

You’d think with what she’s experienced on the Border that a few stories were nothing. But Jodariel flinches at the right hooks and digs her claws in the grass so she doesn’t jump at the terrifying voice the Reader takes on to imitate the horror.

Mercifully Pamitha doesn’t say anything. In fact the Harp’s been mostly quiet, save for the occasional disapproving click of the tongue at the Reader’s high-pitched voice. Quiet and steady against Jodariel’s back. It reminds her of a creepy forest and a tree hard beneath her back and Pamitha lounging quietly above her – a suggestion of protection than an underlining warning. Reminds her of a peaceful silence.

“Harp, you asleep back there?” Jodariel whispers, more to distract herself than actually curious. She nearly jumps as feathers pat her hand. But then, to her surprise, they fish between her claws and nudge them out of the ground.

“Wide awake. Also that’s not good for your fingers.” A pause. “Claws. Whatever.”

The feathers stay for the remainder of the tales, shrouded in shadow and rubbing against her claws at every flinch. Jodariel can find it within herself to point it out. Or frankly to move away.

——————

( _“How did you and papa meet?”_

_“In the silences. It was very much a quiet thing.”_ )

——————

By the time she recognises she’s turning her old cloak into a sash, the thing’s done and you could barely see the stitching. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out for who it is, and Jodariel throws it at the green orb, still snug beneath the Book of Rites. Drops the needle into her lap, plants her elbows on her thighs and groans into her hands, claws dragging against the sides of her face in the sheer frustration of it all.

Keep it to herself. Ignore it. Ignore it and it’ll go away. Ignore it and hope it goes away.

Bull-fucking-shit.

The olive branch is wrapped around her wrist, thorns digging in and spreading deep, and she just wants to break it off. Break it, cut it up and burn it down because that’s easy. Stomping and crushing whatever’s building between them is easy. _Should be_ easy. But here she is, making a sash out of her old cloak because Pamitha gave her a new one, because they keep dancing to and from each other – ebb and flow and it’s so _confusing_.

It plays with her heart, burrows into her chest and she just wants peace. Peace of mind, to know where they stand and stay there. She doesn’t want to think about Pamitha sleeping next to her, doesn’t want to remember Pamitha pressed beneath her and that cocky grin, doesn’t want to see the blush at the words _Kindness suits you_. Doesn’t want to think Pamitha and comfort and her heart racing and _you’re in deep shit._

She doesn’t want to be scared.

_Then fall back,_ a voice orders, a vision of blonde hair, circle-less eyes, hornless, hoofless and fingers holding steady to a blade. Wrapped in teal and gold and the sign of the Commonwealth emblazed on her shoulder. A father’s daughter.

——————

Jodariel hides the sash and does her best to ignore it.

——————

Jodariel stares down at the map of the area, only a fourth of the parchment inked, only a fourth of this ghost town explored. It started as a precaution. Now it’s a pastime until the stars show themselves.

After the second week, they’d send two groups each day, in two different directions. Today the Reader wants to explore one of the taller houses. Jodariel’s legs tinge at the thought of all the stairs, and her shoulders pinch at the image of narrow halls.

“You’re not going alone, Reader.”

“Of course not. Pam’s coming with me.”

Jodariel’s claws catch one edge of the map as she folds it. She frowns down at it, but The Reader waves it off, mumbling something about having enough thread.

“Not alone,” Jodariel says with a deep rumble. The Reader’s confused noise follows her inside, but she pays it no mind; instead she raps thrice on the xylophone. There’s fluttering from above, then louder, singular from the kitchen. In a blur Ti’zo lands on the opposite end of the xylophone, a piece of fruit poking from his mouth and fur sticky with an orange liquid.

“He’s coming with you,” Jodariel announces, carrying Ti’zo outside and trying to clean his fur. So far it’s only made her fingers sticky.

“Really?” The Reader looks dubious.

“I could ask the Wyrm –”

“No! No, that’s all right,” the Reader says in time with Ti’zo’s distressed chirping. After that one trip that nearly left them deaf from Sir Gilman’s enthusiastic commentary in narrow halls, he’s been the designated wagon-sitter. Not that he’s minded.

Jodariel extends her arm so Ti’zo can fly off to rub against the ashes of last night’s fire. It gives her an excuse to ignore the Reader’s poignant silence for a while longer.

“I thought you two are all right?”

Jodariel thinks of the olive branch digging into her forearm, thinks of the glare of a soldier and says, “Define all right.”

“Well, not the ‘competing in the same team’ all right. That’s obvious.” Jodariel raises her brow but doesn’t interrupt. “But the ‘hesitantly trusting you’ all right, well, um – er –” And here the Reader waves her hand, hesitant to finish the sentence. Looking for Jodariel to finish.

And maybe they were getting to that. Maybe –

Her forearm stings. Her shoulders itch with teal and gold. Feathers against her hand. Hisses of _distance distance._ Thinks of the sash hidden away and her heart quivers before a hand seizes it. Falls back on the distance between her and the Harp, falls back on the familiarity of it, and she hates it.

She’s not used to the distance itching at her. She’s not used to waking up against the wagon alone after a moonlit night and feeling disappointed. She’s not used to comfort meaning feathers against her back. She’s not used to the feeling of being watched, of feeling questions at the back of her neck and finding no one. She’s not used to missing feathers against her hand, to missing a playful grin.

So no. No they’re definitely not _that_ all right.

“The ‘I won’t immediately throttle her’ all right,” Jodariel decides.

——————

(“The chipper one and the Wyrm-knight have already left, dears,” Volfred announces helpfully from across the yard. Clearly waiting for them to stop talking, and definitely not listening in.

“Which way?” the Reader asks, because a) they were supposed to wait for Jodariel, and b) they don’t know where they’re supposed to go. That was the whole reason why Jodariel doubled back to find the map. And yes, Gilman’s coming along. Don’t judge her. She can deny Rukey’s puppy dog eyes, but not both Zhae’s and Gilman’s.

Volfred points his pipe in the general direction beyond an old, still in bloom tree; toward the older part of the town. Which is definitely _not_ the right way.

Jodariel growls and goes after them, hooves protesting at the pace.)

——————

(She finds them conversing with a family of bats in what could’ve been a shop, given all the half-rotting shelves. Well, Zhae’s talking to them. Gilman’s peeking over her shoulder curiously, but wisely staying silent.

The fact that the bats haven’t dispersed yet, don’t even wake up as Jodariel sides up behind the two, is something she’s more than willing to attribute to Zhae’s charm. And wonder, for the umpteenth time, whether the girl was blessed by the Scribes after all.)

——————

The Reader is buzzing with energy when they get back. Hastily scribbling something in a makeshift journal, with several parchments scattered around, already covered in notes.

The Harp is sitting nearby and looking rather distant; feathers wrapped around her knees and staring at the fire. Jodariel catches Ti’zo’s encouraging noises, spots his fluttering between her and the Reader in her periphery. Her claws flicker toward Pamitha’s hunched form.

Her eyes land on four talon scars and her forearm burns.

But she simply moves on inside, to fill in the map with what they’ve found with Hedwyn’s help because drawing steadily with these claws has proven futile. If she feels eyes on her, she tells herself they’re not teal coloured.

——————

She walks through a dilapidated house, floor creaking under her weight, and ears honed to Zhae’s exuberant skipping when she spots it. Massive, taking up the entire wall, edges bending under cracks and missing a few bits, colours faded with time but it’s still standing. _Defiant_ , she thinks, against the greyness of the streets, against nature’s grasp, against the Downside itself.

A mural with a family as its centrepiece, background a meadow reminiscent of the Prairies. No, more of the alcove if one was to trim the grass and steady the trees. A mural so stylised it rivals those in the markets, along the Courthouse, with strokes that would make her mother jealous, with a family of Harps in the centre.

A family of Harps. In the centre. Impossible to overlook.

And it makes sense, suddenly. The long fall between the door and the street, the tall windows, the roof which hasn’t so much as fallen apart as it had been meant to open wide. So many towers on this part, so many tall houses and wide rooms.

This whole neighbourhood was for _Harps_.

Pamitha must’ve found out – a part of her argues, selfishly enjoying that Jodariel isn’t the reason for Pamitha’s pensiveness. But she knows, behind that joy, that sliver of relief – knows the distance doesn’t just hurt Jodariel.

——————

“What do you mean we’re lost?!”

“There’s no need to shout, darling. I hear just fine.”

Jodariel’s rubbing her temples, staving off a headache that’s been oncoming for the better part of an hour. Why did she agree when Tariq had suggested politely if Jodariel was willing, she could accompany Pamitha on this little errand in the forest off the side of Mount Alodiel? Why did agree without actually _thinking it through?_

It couldn’t possibly be because the Harp’s been moping since that trip with the Reader. Couldn’t possibly be because she was feeling restless and sparring with Sir Gilman had become stale no matter the added challenge of physical sparring. Couldn’t be because the excursions to the town are a fading memory than a chance to learn. Couldn’t possibly be because she was _this_ close to asking Pamitha for another sparring match just to get her out of those damned buildings for longer than a meal.

Couldn’t be because she was worried – _scared –_ concerned _– frightened –_

Whatever it was, she’s coming to regret it. No, she’s coming to regret ever entering this blasted, twisting forest to look for an _old acquaintance_ who needs to be found with a bloody compass. (White compass. Not actually bloody, mind.)

“Where is the compass, Pamitha?”

“You had it.”

Jodariel looks up, hands falling from her temples. “I gave it to you after we passed that white-red bush.”

Pamitha stops pacing – masked as a leisure walk, sure, but it was still pacing – and squints at Jodariel. “No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did. You were walking to my right, saying something about how ancient the Ekmarr Trees looked and something about people not worshipping it properly –”

“Jodi darling,” Pamitha cuts in, “do I look the type to even know what an Ekmarr Tree is, let alone that people should worship it?” She crosses her wings, brows raised and head tilted. And well, when she puts it like that, it does make Jodariel seem dumb for missing the obvious.

“But then – who did I give the compass to? And where were you?”

“Where was – I was following you to the purple coloured stream.” She gesticulates, charting the route with her wing. “I turned around, you were gone, and in the next –”

“I was behind you?” Pamitha nods. Jodariel’s brows pull tighter. “I don’t remember a stream. Did you pass anything interesting along the way?”

“Interesting?” She laughs, ready to fire off a list of examples, but stops, brows dropping as she takes in Jodariel’s expression. She clicks her tongue, thinking before she says, “Like what, an Ekmarr Tree?”

“For example, sure.”

“There was a rock that had two purple trees growing out of it, I suppose.”

A rock with two purple trees, the same thing Jodariel found before Pamitha suddenly came out of the forest after having been separated at – separated at –

She – She doesn’t right remember how they got separated. Or whether Pamitha said anything except that titbit about a tree. Just disappeared like she appeared. With the compass.

_“Best not to wander,”_ Tariq had said. It was worded as polite, but made Jodariel feel like it was a warning with the same weight as _don’t start trouble at the Courthouse_ or _stay by the fires at night_ or _Don’t court a Harp._

_Best not to wander_ – and they have definitely wandered off.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit shit shit shit.”

“I appreciate the fervour but mind explaining for us not versed in telepathy?”

“You weren’t walking with me. I didn’t give you the compass. So there’s someone – something – here that impersonates others,” Jodariel explains. She tugs at her bangs, lets out another _shit_ before Pamitha clicks her tongue.

“We’ve been swindled. Huh, clever little buggers whoever – _whatever_ they are.”

Jodariel glares at her. “Not the time, Harp.”

Pamitha rolls her eyes.

“So we go back to where we split up and hope to find them? Or do we try to find a way out on our own? Wait you know what?” Then she raises her wings, lips pulling into a lopsided grin, and eyes shining dangerously. The display has Jodariel shaking her head before Pamitha even says anything.

“I could just fly out of here.” And she doesn’t even wait, doesn’t even hear the beginning of _but this forest feels wrong, wrong, wrong and it sounds too easy_. Doesn’t hear _don’t you dare abandon me here, Harp_ (which is good, otherwise she’d hear how shaken the words are rather than filled with anger _._ )

Jodariel barely says _Pamitha_ before the Harp’s in the air with a gust of wind.

The wind doesn’t even subside when a loud _whack_ cuts through. Jodariel follows it to a tall, blue tree, waving with no wind. Jodariel’s careful not to step on the vine-like leaves that’ve fallen. A tangled blob of teal and red stands out amidst the vibrant blue branches.

“Not. A. Word, Jodariel,” Pamitha hisses. She shakes more leaves off as she tries to wiggle free, but all she accomplishes is slipping further down and tangling even more. If Jodariel wasn’t grinning before, the loud, guttural groan from a tangled Harp has her grinning like she’s forgotten how.

“Help?” Pamitha grits out, one wing slipping free and waving down at Jodariel. Helpless like a kitten, and Jodariel thinks – _no one would believe me_. Not that Pamitha would let her utter this to anyone. Ever.

With an eye roll, Jodariel moves to the base and gives it a swift punch. She steps back, listening carefully to the rattling, and sticks her arms out at a loud _snap._ She blinks and her arms are full of a disgruntled Harp who’s studiously avoiding her gaze and absolutely not blushing.

“Not a word?”

“Not a word.”

“Backtrack?”

“ _Definitely._ ”

——————

They find the rock with two purple trees, and they find a little blob of energy floating around. A little blob with a white compass, engraved with a blue crescent moon inside its transparent self. Jodariel and Pamitha share a glance before the blob spots them, and with a pop it’s running – er, floating away

Following it proves easy. Too easy, following a set path with neither vines nor upturned trees nor raised roots. They reach a clearing when the feeling poking at the back of Jodariel’s neck turns vicious, turns to a scrape of cold fingers. And it’s soldier’s instinct that has her jut her arm out, catching Pamitha before she steps into the clearing. Has her pushing her back, claws digging into her sash. But a soldier’s carelessness – or really, a very Jodariel-like boldness – has her taking a step forward, a snarl rising in her throat.

The last thing she remembers is a white compass flying for her, remembers ducking only for something cold to reach inside, ice water rushing through her and the snarl convulsing into a gurgle.

——————

_(Remembers being stabbed, claws digging in, twisting metal and searing pain._

_Remembers the cold – slow, dripping down her side – then fast, gripping through her, rushing like being submerged in icy depths._

_Remembers a helmet heavy on her head, of gloves pulling at her fingers, of the soil calling – stop, lie down, rest._

_Remembers shrieks and shouts and screams._

_Remembers “Go for their sides!”_

_Hears “You can have the bloody compass.”_

_Remembers – remembers a blade – no, metallic feathers to her own blade; a face, hidden behind copper, bright eyes staring through slits. But they weren’t teal, the face wasn’t like this, the feathers weren’t –_

_Talons and coldness and feathers against her face and the soil against her back and the words_ _– a growl, a hiss, a curse, a promise – You can’t have her._

_There’s a name at the tip of her tongue, but she can’t find it, only spits out water and red.)_

——————

_Captain Jodariel_.

——————

Jodariel.

——————

“Jodariel,” urges a voice above her. Something soft slides against her cheeks, and something sharp catches in her hair, tugs once – twice.

“Come on, darling.” She feels pressed into her hair, feels something press into her horns. “It’s rude to fall asleep at such a romantic spot.” A chuckle. “I mean, that’s basic date etiquette.”

_Date?_

“And forcing me to haul you back is most inconsiderate of you, you know.”

Back up, _date?_

“Please wake up.”

Jodariel grumbles, pulling at the sand in her throat, eyes squinting open. Her hand flies up to catch whatever’s on her face, and stops when her claws wrap around feathers. She squints up, brows pulling at the sight of a relieved Pamitha Theyn.

A relieved Pamitha Theyn apparently cradling her in – her lap? There’s no other way for her to be taller than Jodariel. And the feeling of stone digging into her lower back comes into focus. Along with other things she’d rather not concentrate on – well, maybe except for the talons combing her hair and the feathers skimming her jaw.

“Ah, there’s hope for you yet, Jodi darling,” Pamitha says, but Jodariel’s more focused on the hitch following _Jodi darling_. Focuses on how it inexplicably warms her, how it might be the warmest words she’s ever heard the Harp say.

But she doesn’t know how she wound up in Pamitha’s lap, how they’re on a stone path and not a forest, or why her hands feel so cold. Doesn’t know where the transparent blob went, where the compass landed or what barrelled into her. Doesn’t know why she feels comfortable in Pamitha’s lap. Doesn’t know why she’s not jumping away. Doesn’t know why all of her is so calm.

Doesn’t know any of that but all she asks is:

“Date etiquette?”

And Pamitha laughs, and laughs and laughs; and the sound – melody, really – warms her like a furnace. She leans closer, nose in Jodariel’s hair, horns pressing dangerously into Pamitha’s stomach, and whispers _I’ll teach you later._

——————

(“If I never come to a forest with an Ekmarr Tree, it’ll be too soon, darling.”)

——————

Tariq isn’t perturbed at losing the compass. Just parts with the words _It’s found its place_ and goes back to strumming his lute.

Pamitha sends her glances during dinner when she thinks Jodariel’s not looking, when she thinks Jodariel’s too focused on Hedwyn’s worried looks, on Volfred announcing he’ll be taking the wagon for an upgrade. But she sees them – distant looks that remind her of a moonlit balcony and a flask of moonshine. Looks that have the back of her neck tingling, burning. Looks that have a voice hiss _Stop._

She takes Jodariel’s watch, grins and says, “Need to stretch my feathers anyway.” Jodariel doesn’t believe her for a second, but she’s too tired to argue.

Sleep greets her with Pamitha’s voice and the words _You can’t have her._

——————

_Fall back_.

Jodariel feels like she’s already on the ground.

——————

(“Saint’s eyes, what are you doing, Pamitha?”

Something soft and light cradles her cheek. Jodariel turns her head, wrinkling her nose as it tickles.

“Being a fool, that’s what.”

Like a whisper it slips away, and Jodariel wonders whether it’s a dream.)


	4. Your feet sink into the ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Easy to avoid. Easy to ignore. _Just march on, back straight, eyes forward. Left –right – left – right –_
> 
> Her feet take her to the Harp’s side before she snaps out of it.
> 
> Jodariel’s hands itch, and even behind this mask of Captain Jodariel – behind the hisses of _no no no no_ – something hurts. Something cracks.
> 
> She goes to sleep without her cloak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fair warning this chapter got away from me
> 
> also I apologise to everyone who knows how ye old English works. I tried, I'm not sure it's the best but I can't nitpick anymore

The Rites start again, and she doesn’t have to think about the words.

Doesn’t have to think about the little nook they’ve made in Jodariel’s chest.

It does leave her time to ponder whether the Harp’s giving her space or simply avoiding her. Again. But Jodariel doesn’t, because then she’ll have to admit she’s been giving Pamitha a wide berth as well.

But this is what she wanted, isn’t it? This distance, the olive branch out of her grasp and withering between them. So why is it suffocating? It shouldn’t be so suffocating, shouldn’t feel like another’s weight had landed on her, shouldn’t –

_Careful what you wish for_ , they say. Jodariel’s afraid she understands why.

——————

(In the back of her mind, somewhere between the sunny coast of the sea and the mountainside houses, Jodariel recognises the words _“She’s fine.”_

Inside the house – made of stone and furnished for a royal – she reads, _“She looked dead, darling.”_ (She doesn’t know the letters, it was forbidden to learn, but something tells here the letters match the words and dream logic leaves no room for guessing.)

The word _dead_ overlapping, twisting and shifting and dripping with fresh paint. Written with choppy strokes. _Afraid,_ she thinks, and doesn’t dwell on how writing can’t be afraid. Not when a voice fills her head, like a melody but she can’t – _she can’t find it, who wrote it, who –_

_“But she’s not. And she won’t be in the morning.”_

Crimson and teal and _cold, cold, cold_ but also _light, light and laughing –_

_Please wake up._

Come morning Jodariel only recalls sand and whispers of a leaf against her cheek.)

——————

(Two days later she realises it’s too soft to be a leaf.

Realises it when the same whisper of movement curves along her cheek, her jaw before it snaps away to her shoulder, solidifying in a firm shake. Realises when she blinks awake to Pamitha crouched over her, face unreadable, teeth pulling at her lower lip.

Fighting to say something or fighting a smile, Jodariel can’t tell. Both leave her on an edge.

But Pamitha pulls her back with _“It’s your watch, darling”_ and is gone before Jodariel can ponder about it.)

——————

“She’s not going to up and leave if that’s what you’re worried about, Jodi,” the Reader mumbles, nose deep in the white book. Green orb dim as ever beneath her bench. Had the Reader not spoken with it that morning, Jodariel’d think it empty.

“I’m not.” Not currently, no. But like most things about the Harp, it’s floating somewhere in the back of her mind. Surprisingly at the rear of all the thoughts, despite insistent prodding how it should be closer.

“Okay.” But the Reader doesn’t sound convinced. Jodariel doesn’t take the invitation to change her mind; rather, she steps over the kitchen steps, and yanks Hedwyn and Zhae away from the pot before the flames set their hair on fire. Again.

——————

The Bog is unsettling, with or without Bertrude’s tonic to ward off the effects. Unsettling in the way it slithers into you, fills the cracks and pokes when you try to forget. As if it knows the rumours about itself, the hushed warnings and half-formed curses, and relishes in reminding you exactly where you are.

It has her wondering whether the mad Crone’s ramblings hold any actual truth.

“Thy thoughts are loud,” Bertrude grumbles next to Jodariel. She had almost forgotten about the Crone, save for the rattle of her breathing and the aura that seems to follow her, a shade more welcoming than the swamp.

“You can return inside,” Jodariel suggests. It’s Bertrude’s watch but Jodariel can’t stay inside any longer, can’t sit and pretend the confining space of the wagon isn’t suffocating her. And the thought of facing the Essence has her old nerves flaring up, expecting an ambush.

“Or thou canst talk.” Jodariel glances over, brow raised, but Bertrude’s staring ahead, hood hiding her face. “We are led to believe it helps.”

Help? Will it help when she thinks of Harps and all she hears is _death death death death_ , yet when she thinks of Pamitha the words shift to _beautiful death gracious death_? Will it help decipher why there’s a nook in her chest that shouldn’t be there, that refuses to get crushed; fills no matter how many times she empties it? Will it help her find where she and the Harp stand, despite the distance?

Will it help with the lingering guilt enveloping her whenever she dares to look for that nook? Will it help her realise why the words _“We don’t court Harps”_ physically hurt, more than the crestfallen face Hedwyn made when she told him that, when he got the courage to be honest and tell her about Fikani?

No, she doesn’t think it will.

“It’s the swamp,” Jodariel says, voice surprisingly even.

“Ah.” The Crone sounds dubious. And Jodariel curls her claws, ready for her to pry further. But what Bertrude says is: “’Tis until the morrow.”

“Until the Rite.”

“’Tis what we said.”

Silence stretches.

“The Reader hast ruminated about the Rite,” Bertrude starts nonchalantly enough. She fixes her hood before continuing, “Listed all Nightwings ‘cept thee for the third spot.”

Jodariel breathes out heavily. “The Harp and I don’t see eye to eye.”

She laughs – a deep rattle that has her hood slipping back enough for Jodariel to see her eyes. Two black pits, black as the starless sky, with a dot dancing in amusement. ( _Will mine end up like those? Endless pits with barely a flicker of myself._ )

“Thou donst even see each other’s gaze. ‘Tis a wonder you have liberated one.”

Comparatively, Jodariel would rather Rukey jab at her than Bertrude. Especially about this. Then again he might concentrate on what she and Pamitha were like during the starless period, and she’d rather not.

“The Reader is full of feats.”

“Every curse runs its course.” Bertrude sighs and it feels like she’s spoken the words many times before. “Have ye even tried?”

“I detest curses.”

“’Tis not what we meant and thou knowst it.”

They have tried sparring against each other but – no. Neither was too keen on leaving their back open. And no, falling asleep next to each other doesn’t count. It’s not the same as trusting someone to have your back in the heat of the moment. Easier to pretend, in the dark, that the feathers against her arm are just a shabby blanket, that the breathing next to her is someone else.

So Jodariel stays silent. It’s admission enough.

Thankfully Bertrude just exhales in a hiss and flicks invisible dirt off her hood.

——————

(“We could give thee a tonic for sleeping,” Bertrude offers, flicking her hand as if said tonic would slip from her sleeve.

Jodariel looks at her askance, eyes narrowing. She came barrelling in when the last tonic exploded all over Bertrude’s workstation, which coincidentally was the dining table. It turned Ti’zo yellow and Volfred’s pipe blue – not the intended effects as far as she knows, and harmless so far.

“Tested this one.” Her tail swishes against the muck. “The Reader is sleeping like a babe.”

“What?! You tested it on her?” Jodariel demands, keeping her hands tightly at her sides less she haul the Crone and that’s the quickest way she gets turned into a toad or an imp or worse.

“Nay. Tested it before ye even found the wagon.” She turns, bright dots amid an abyss zeroing on her, freezing her up. “The Reader lacked sleep. Could not fall asleep.”

The Reader was sluggish since the second Rite, kept losing focus and kept her hood down. Jodariel deflates, remembering the time she had to catch her from toppling over with the book and forced her to lie down; remembering how she just got back up.

“Neither could the wine-feathered one.”

“No, I don’t need the tonic,” Jodariel says, burning to ask more, to ask _why why why_.

_No. No. No._ )

——————

(Inside she finds the Harp asleep, back against the Reader, both snoring lightly. They’re pressed to the left end of the room, not at all near her spot. Easy to avoid. Easy to ignore. _Just march on, back straight, eyes forward. Left –right – left – right –_

Her feet take her to the Harp’s side before she snaps out of it.

Even in tonic-induced sleep, Pamitha looks troubled – brows pinched, wings curled around her, feathers shifting. Or she could be cold. The blanket’s kicked away, with Gilman managing somehow to bundle up in it despite having his own blanket.

Jodariel’s hands itch, and even behind this mask of Captain Jodariel – behind the hisses of _no no no no_ – something hurts. Something cracks.

She goes to sleep without her cloak.

In the morning it’s folded neatly by her head.)

——————

_They are dangerous because they fight as sisters_ is one of the first lessons (warnings) they teach you at the Academy. That the Harps have been reduced to two dozen or so families, and are stubbornly keeping that number still. So stubbornly they might as well be one large family.

And Jodariel understands why that’s terrifying to a country that’s so fractured, where families turn on one another for nary a sliver of the Archjustice’s favour, where they’re so ready to dispose of their children by sending them to the Border. Where you’re just a means to an end.

It’s alluring – the idea to have a whole family there to pick you up, rather than toss you out.

It’s wishful thinking in the Downside – to find something resembling a family, let alone actual family members. And yet she’s found Hedwyn, found Rukey, found the Reader and Nightwings and no one has fallen behind. No, they’ve picked each other up. They’ve actually freed one.

It isn’t lost on Jodariel how lucky she is.

It’s lost on Tamitha Theyn how lucky _she_ is – to find her own sister in the Downside. It’s lost in betrayal and hate – searing, bitter, obnoxious hate that she’s wearing like an armour, a second pair of wings, thinking they’ll take her higher, bring her closer to Mount Alodiel and the gates and freedom.

Maybe they will. Not before she’s left a burning husk, wingless and barely holding herself together. _With tatters of teal and gold, the Commonwealth insignia burning through, with eyes hollow and voice hoarse and –_

(But that isn’t her. That’s her father, and she – And she –)

If Jodariel can recognise it from only two meetings, Pamitha must know this, must’ve mapped it out well before she’s found their group. And yet she still tries, still comes to her sister, pleading, offering olive branch after olive branch, she might as well offer an entire tree.

And Tamitha Theyn cuts it all down, near cuts Pamitha as well. All in a near perfect rendition of a Commonwealth family rather than a Harp one. Even large families fracture.

Jodariel inclines her head at the Reader, only after Pamitha shoos the woman away and Jodariel can almost see the forced nonchalance of the Harp’s grin. Jodariel inclines her head, pointedly nudging her chin to the wagon. And the Reader looks back to the Harp – her shoulders high and already fixing her mask – and the Reader shakes her head.

Whispers _“She needs this”_ as she passes.

——————

(Just like Jodariel thought she needed this distance.)

——————

She watches as Pamitha intercepts her sister’s every move, purposefully blocks her Auras so Zhae can pass through with the Orb. Just takes takes takes her sister’s anger and a part of Jodariel wants to scream, to burst into the field and separate them repercussions be damned.

Wants to drag the Harp away and shake some sense into her because _She doesn’t need this, surely no one needs this_.

She needs a resolution, but she needn’t break herself completely to do it. (Jodariel needs a resolution and she’s breaking herself to avoid it.)

Jodariel doesn’t want Pamitha to break herself to do it. Doesn’t want to think how many repeats of this Pamitha’s lived through; no masks to hide her sister’s anger, no way to muffle her words. No Pyre to bring you back when you’re reckless. No one to stop four bleeding talon wounds.

Thinks of the words _You can’t have her_ and how much she wants to roar them back.

Wants and wants and wants with such heat it terrifies her.

——————

They win, but Jodariel doesn’t feel like celebrating.

Not until the Essence leave, and still not when the Reader collapses in near exhaustion. Not when the light catches on cuts in Pamitha’s raiments. Not when she’s debating whether to give in to the urge and help her out of them, help ease her tight shoulders, or to listen to the other voice telling her to _stop stop stop._

Zhae stumbles next to Pamitha – or perhaps toward her, already talking about something and taking Pamitha’s mask. Jodariel eyes linger, until Pamitha’s shoulder ease and maybe Jodariel doesn’t have to do either.

That somehow sits worse with her.

——————

“Another Rite, and I think it’s a Liberation one after that,” the Reader announces at breakfast, weary yet hopeful.

“Well look at us, actually doing it again,” Pamitha says. Her eyes find Jodariel, quick like she didn’t even have to check where she’s sitting. Her brow quirks, amused and suggesting _Look at us, we haven’t killed each other._

And Jodariel doubts they will. She doesn’t know what they are – where they stand – but she knows they’ve gone beyond the instinct that could result in killing each other.

Jodariel inclines her head, moving for a shrug before Sir Gilman exclaims exuberantly next to her and she flinches away from the table.

——————

She folds and refolds the sash, claws twitching where the needle pricked her again and again, and thinks of the dry olive branch between them. Thinks how it may never become a tree and –

_Death death death death death_

_I think her shoulder didn’t like the fall_

_“You know what they don’t teach little Harps? To plead.”_

_Please wake up_

Her heart hurts.

——————

(“It’s easier to hate things. No, wait, hold on.” Hedwyn scrunches his face, then, “Not to care. It’s easier not to care.”

And Jodariel, holding her head in her hands, fingers pushing against the pain of growing horns, mind flaring back at all the elaborate forms he made, all the extra effort he put into menial tasks, asks, “Do you even know how to do easy?”

“Sleeping comes to mind.” Jodariel would laugh if it didn’t hurt her head. “I learned it from you.”

“I didn’t teach you to fall in love with a Harp,” Jodariel points out with less venom. The months have worn down on her, then again the immediate irritation at his declaration – the flash of anger – faded as quickly as it came. And she could never stay furious with Hedwyn for long.

“No, I mean you showed me how to do beyond easy.”

“Hardly.”

“You loved each and every one of us, Jodi. Horrors of the Border and bad attitude and entitled little shits – all of that included.” Jodariel looks at him when he tries to envelop her in a hug and barely reaches halfway to her other shoulder.

“That isn’t easy.” She fells pressed into her, and her head hurts for a different reason. Same one that has her chest tightening, her throat drying and her eyes pricking.)

——————

“Jodi, I know it’s not my place to pressure you, and I’m saying this as a really, really last resort, but.” The Reader pauses, hands clasped above the green orb in her lap – glowing almost hesitantly – hood down and burn scars in clear view. The morning light brings out the red in her hair.

“But please,” she continues, fingers pressing into her chin, “ _please_ talk to each other.”

——————

Her mother used to say _Words cut deeper than blades, Jodi_.

And for a long time, through childhood and the chaos of the Bloodborder, she didn’t understand how words can hurt more than blades, than claws, than bolts. Can hurt more than seeing her shield-siblings – see young ones she’s taught – fall; more than the fall to the Downside.

She didn’t understand – doesn’t understand until Pamitha, until they try and talk; until in an effort to avoid all that’s best left unsaid, they work through the hate that’s been imbedded ages ago; until talking turns to arguing turns to shouting.

Turns to “They slaughtered everyone inside! Children, Jodariel!”

And she understands – the slap in her face, the stab in her gut, the punch to the chest – the thought that her platoon – barely out of school, barely crisping adulthood – slaughtered children. That they crossed a line she dug her own grave at.

_“Show no mercy, they’ve none for you,”_ her captain used to say.

_We aren’t without mercy_ rings in the Archjudge’s voice and she’s going to be sick.

She cannot stay, cannot look at the Harp, cannot _breathe –_

She hears someone call her name, distantly, but she’s already beyond the overgrowth marring the island.

——————

“Jodi!”

“I’m fine.”

“You can’t stay up there all day and sulk.”

“Not sulking.”

“Fine. You can’t stay up there all day and not sulk.”

Jodariel glares down at Hedwyn. From this height she barely discerns his hair from his cloak. She hasn’t even spent twenty minutes alone before he found her. And that was half an hour ago – which he spent trying to talk to her and Jodariel trying to get him to leave. Neither have proven successful.

“I can see camp fine from here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hedwyn argues, voice heavy. “You’re not a lookout bird.”

“No, I suppose you’d be better at it.” The moment the words leave Jodariel’s mouth, she regrets them. He’s eaten himself enough over the lives lost for his desertion, and has well begun burying it under the weight of Volfred’s Plan. He won’t admit as much, but she practically raised him, so she knows where to look.

“All right.” Hedwyn lets out a loud noise, and Jodariel can just make out him rubbing his face. “Please just – just come back before nightfall.”

“Sure,” Jodariel says, watching the horizon while paying close attention to Hedwyn’s footsteps until they fade.

The sun has dropped closer to the sea when she hears another set of footsteps at the base of her perch. With a heavy sigh, Jodariel draws herself out of meditation – something Tariq had suggested early on, and she’s just actually getting to.

“It’s not dusk yet, Hedwyn.”

“Nor am I Hedwyn.”

Jodariel looks over, and true enough Pamitha Theyn stands where Hedwyn stood, wings wrapped around herself like a robe. Jodariel’s claws press into the rough coral-like branch, but she forces them flat with an exhale.

“Come to deal more damage?” she says evenly.

“The Reader’s getting worried.”

“So she sent _you_?”

“Well this is of my own making. Partly,” Pamitha says pointedly, and although Jodariel can’t right see her eyes, she can feel her gaze. So she stares ahead, to the setting sun and the turbulent sea. Hopes that Pamitha would get the hint and _leave_.

There’s fluttering at the base, then around her, above her until an irritated Pamitha lands on the thick coral-like webbing opposite of Jodariel, obscuring half her view.

“We need to talk,” Pamitha starts, voice without its airy quality.

Jodariel glares. “We talked. It did not go well.”

“Don’t pin this all on me, darling. You equally escalated the situation.” Pamitha chuckles, mirthless as the grin she shoots Jodariel, sharp as the look she gives her. “I only told you the truth.”

Anger flares hot, a growl building in her chest and rushing up her throat. She digs her teeth in. Instead she hisses, “You lied.”

“Why would I?” Pamitha shoots back, and there is fire in her voice as well. Colder, sharper. Jodariel wasn’t the only one sitting on hot coals. Or maybe this stewed for longer?

“Why?” Jodariel has the sudden urge to laugh, to let this anger out as a howling laugh to rival the sea, to scare the Titans back into the abyss. It’s itching beneath her skin, pushing its way up but all that leaves her is a disbelieving huff, barely a quirk of the lips, a half-abandoned shake of the head.

Because Pamitha Theyn asks _why_ like she’s never known deceit, like she’s never used words as daggers, like she’s never twisted anyone around just because she _can._

“Why do you seek me out, only to poke at me?” Jodariel challenges. “To poke and prod, and throw salt onto old wounds?”

“That’s hardly –”

“Because it amuses you, Pamitha Theyn.”

“It was _harmless_ ,” Pamitha insists. It’s not lost to Jodariel how the Harp’s curled her feathers inward, how her talons are pointed down and how her eyes cannot keep to one spot on Jodariel’s face. As if she’s unsure of her own words.

The hot coals of anger sizzle out, and like steam an emptiness takes over, leads her to a long-abandoned cavern.

“Not today.” Jodariel leans back, lets her eyes wander to the sea beyond Pamitha’s shoulders. Pretends Pamitha’s exhale is a wind. Pretends she doesn’t notice her shoulders drop. Pretends there isn’t a tightness in her chest and sand down her throat.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” It’s said so softly Jodariel could ignore it. Could jump down and return to the wagon and pretend this didn’t happen. Abandon any chance of working with Pamitha in the Rites. Abandon the remains of the olive branch.

She looks back, breath stopping at the heated, _honest_ gaze and all those ideas go with the waves. They needed to go, to make room for a new one, stubborn as the lot of them. The thought of Pamitha wanting Jodariel to believe her so badly she’s leaving herself vulnerable with such a display.

So they stare at each other, waiting and waiting, until Pamitha’s feathers shift minutely, until she whispers, “Will you say _something_?”

“My last words hit a nerve,” she says at length, ears ringing with _And how many of us are you willing to give for your sister?_

“You’ll have to be more specific, darling.”

“Assumptions about your sister.”

Pamitha chuckles and licks her lips, eyes straying to Jodariel’s lap for a moment. “Let’s call a spade a spade, and a bullseye a bullseye.”

_“They’ve no mercy for you” –_ stop it. Just stop it. She’s tired of it. She’s tired of those commands. Tired of seeing a soldier in her periphery. Tired of imagining her own reflection for what it’s not. Tired – she’s just so bloody tired.

“If you aimed for comforting, you’ve missed, Harp.”

“I’ve found honesty isn’t comforting as people lead on.”

Jodariel barks out a laugh. It’s as hollow as she feels.

“Honesty? Honesty threw me into the river. Honesty spat me out. Honesty had me free a dozen young Harps from an execution.” Jodariel leans forward, stares unflinching at surprised eyes. _She didn’t know, how could she not have known? She pokes and prods and how could she not have known?_

“Honesty,” Jodariel spits the word, “is bitter, and hard, and you’ve not spoken it.”

She watches the minute changes on Pamitha’s face, watches her search Jodariel’s words. Watches her close herself off. Watches fire and steel and defiance shine in her eyes.

“And honesty is a song. A few notes here, a few there. Just because _you_ don’t know how to listen, doesn’t mean it’s suddenly gone.” She leans back abruptly, teeth digging into her lower lip. Pamitha closes her eyes, feathers straightening, as if she’s preparing to take flight.

When she looks at Jodariel again, her eyes remind the Demon of the reefs, and her smile of a ballad, her posture of one holding Mount Alodiel on her shoulders. The change is disorienting. So much, Jodariel finds herself holding onto a coral-like branch.

“Or perhaps you’re not the only one who’s deaf. Perhaps I don’t know of honesty or kindness. Because they got my sister sent here.” She looks down, traces a talon along her inner feathers. “Got me sent down here. Took away my family. My skies.”

She breathes out a haggard breath, blinks furiously before she dares meet Jodariel’s gaze. Something in her gaze makes Jodariel ache all over, makes her hear _Please wake up_ and _I’d go as far away from there as possible._

“I am here for my sister. But I’m not _here_ for her, Jodariel.” Her lips quirk in a small smile. Laid bare. “If you believe anything I say, believe that.”

——————

Pamitha leaves with one lingering look and a beat of crimson wings.

Yet Joadriel finds a crimson feather by her hooves, right where the Harp sat. Twirls it in her claws and thinks of honest eyes and a sad smile and the words _You can’t have her_ and _I’m not here for her._

How they contrast each other – one raw and fiery, the other desperate and low. How beneath the words, beneath the tone, they don’t contrast at all.

How it sounds like _I’m here for you._

——————

Something knocks in the nook in her chest.

——————

It’s absurd.

So is listening to her mother’s stories about beautiful, gracious, peaceful Harps.

So is not killing Harps when they retreat – with their backs to you, open and vulnerable.

So is releasing captive children instead of executing them according to the Commonwealth.

So is digging out a wagon and following instructions of a man named Sandalwood. So is betting it all on a Reader they’ve fished out of the river.

So is working with an imp, a Wyrm, a girl who has no reason to be down here, a Harp, a Crone, a Sap, a bard who knows more than any of them could suspect.

So is getting out of the Downside.

_You live in absurd, Jodariel._

——————

She realises she’s a hypocrite the moment she steps back into camp, sun setting behind her. Accusing of dishonesty when she hasn’t been honest with herself since that moonlit balcony; when she’s been hiding behind teal and gold and a reflection of what was.

Realises it with a crimson feather hot in her pocket, the memory of a sash hidden in the wagon, and standing before the wagon’s roof, eyes easily finding Pamitha leaning against the horn.

Near admits it, but what comes out is: “Get dressed.”

She might not admit it, even if the Reader looks at her and _knows,_ even if a voice is urging her to stop, but Jodariel won’t spit on her parents’ memory by being a hypocrite a second longer. Perhaps she will mend herself along the way.

——————

(“I must reiterate and say I strongly don’t think violence will hash out age-old animosities,” the Reader says, green orb clutched in her grasp and eyes darting from Jodariel to Pamitha, to Zhae, Gilman, Bertrude and Hedwyn.

“I second that notion,” Hedwyn adds absently, voice muffled by his mask, and busy helping Zhae into her raiments without pulling out her hair.

“Nonsense. Some of the longest treaties have been signed after a duel!” Gilman supplies, straightening with a flick of his tail that sends his helmet flying into the kitchen with a crash. To his credit, he only twitches at Bertrude’s grave hiss.

“Look on the bright side, darling. If Jodi does manage to catch me long enough to do damage, our resident bundle of sunshine certainly has a potion for it.”

“’Tis true enough.”

Pamitha shoots her a smile as Jodariel fixes her mask, edges frail with uncertainty.

“I don’t have a habit of harming my own teammates in a Rite, do I, Reader?”

Silence greets her, and Jodariel looks up from her cuffs. It’s good she’s wearing her mask, else the others would see just how much she’s amused by their collective confusion (minus a distracted Zhae and plus one awoken Ti’zo.) Pamitha has outright dropped her mask, staring unabashedly at Jodariel, like she’s grown another head.

“Reader?” Jodariel prompts, and the spell dissolves with a snap.

“What?” The Reader blinks. “Yes – I mean, no – wait – hold on – sure yeah, you don’t but – _what_?”

“Thou hast broken our Reader. Most unfortunate.” Jodariel would argue there’s a hint of amusement in Bertrude’s voice.

“A Rite,” Zhae clarifies. She's furiously wiping at her mask, face scrunched in concentration. “Jodi and Pam on one team. Oh –” and she slips her mask on haphazardly so she can clap her hands excitedly, twirling around to face Jodariel. “And me. Please me? It’ll be so much fun!”

Jodariel moves across the room, everyone’s eyes heavy on her as she fixes Zhae’s mask so it’s not hanging sideways, and is properly fastened.

“Sure,” Jodariel says before she’s drowned out by a loud _“What”_ and a rattling cackle. And if the noise isn’t disorienting enough, Zhae practically throws herself against Jodariel, mumbling gratitude as her hands dig into Jodariel’s sides in an awkward hug.)

——————

Sparring with Pamitha could hardly be described as preparation to fighting with Pamitha at her side. Or well, above her as the Harp’s wont to take to the sky, to avoid Sir Gilman’s zips and spins. Hardly prepared her for how much she has to fight her instincts to look to the sky with every beat of wings, to calm herself at the sight of a Harp approaching.

To recognise the pang of annoyance followed by a flutter of wings behind her, signalling she’s in the way. To ignore the foreign thrill that courses through her whenever Pamitha takes to the sky. To push through the spark of amusement when dancing around Hedwyn.

She’s gotten used to working with the others – even Bertrude – and all of this is so different. Different like she’s back at the beginning, standing before the Accusers and the raiments itchy on her skin _._

“Will thee stand still?” Bertrude growls as she swipes at Zhae, missing entirely. The girl’s emulating Pamitha’s movements – however possible for a human – and dancing about.

“Nope. Nuh-uh. Scribes said he who stands still gets his feet in the mud, and I like my feet mud-free. Currently. The Scribes worked hard on the raiments and I don’t want to be rude.”

Jodariel sees Hedwyn behind Bertrude, has enough time to send Zhae a warning before the girl’s banished. She hears a _whoops_ at the back of her mind, visualises Zhae’s shrug and giggle, and uses the thoughts to clap her hands together, banishing both Hedwyn and Bertrude.

_Don’t group up before a Demon,_ she’d said time and again.

Her Aura sizzles and fades, leaving Gilman coiled and the Orb on his back. She advances on him, arms loose in the event he tries to bolt past her. He doesn’t. Oh no, he lobs it over Jodariel’s head, and she digs her hooves in, twisting to run after it, eyes following as it lands well past the middle of the field.

Leaving her back wide open.

“Go left!” Pamitha shouts.

Jodariel doesn’t even think – she dives to the left. Heat slides close to her shoulder, and her ears ring from Gilman’s war cry. He bounces off the ground, slithering quickly for the Orb, and anger rushes through Jodariel, willing her limbs to move faster, to jump before him, to do _something –_

_Don’t worry –_ the words graze over her cheek, over her eyes, and slide like a balm over her nerves. She blinks and Pamitha’s swopping before Gilman, snatching the Orb with a laugh.

“Thanks for the Orb, darling,” she says.

“You’re welcome –” the Wyrm-knight shouts back before realisation hits him. “Oh, wait. A battle of speed then!”

And Jodariel can’t say the excitement coursing through her isn’t partially her own.

——————

(They lost.

Well, technically the Reader pulled them out before Hedwyn could reach their Pyre, so _technically_ they didn’t lose. But they would’ve. No one was close enough to intercept.

Doesn’t rightly matter. She hasn’t felt this light in years. She doesn’t even mind that she’s got both Hedwyn and Zhae lying on her back, or that the steps to the kitchen are digging into her side awkwardly.

“Not that I mind,” Pamitha peeks from behind Bertrude, overcoat hanging awkwardly, “but that was abrupt, Reader dear.”

There comes a muffled answer, interrupted by Tariq’s pointed cough.

“I apologise profusely, but the Reader’s experienced a mishap,” is all he says and it’s enough to have Jodariel jump to her feet, catching both humans so they don’t tumble to the ground.

The mishap is a bloody nose, cloth pressed to it, and a growing bruise above the Reader’s unmarred eye. The mess that used to be a tall shelf of doodads, with a glowing green orb in the middle, could also be part of the mishap.

“What happened?” Jodariel demands, letting the humans slip down onto their feet.

The Reader mumbles something, waving her hand.

“She fell asleep. Got startled by the imps and tossed the orb into the self. Which, promptly –” Tariq mimes tipping over, mimics the sound of wood creaking and scrapping to disturbing perfection. Jodariel slowly turns her head to look at the Reader. The woman shrugs one shoulder helplessly.

“Fortune in misfortune – ‘twas not our equipment among them. Come, thou needeth fixing before the Rite.” Bertrude beckons the Reader with an offhand twirl. The Reader follows but waves her hand energetically as she passes them, words lost in her cloth and Bertrude’s hiss of _thy word_.

As if one being, the rest turn to Tariq synchronously after the door to the kitchen closes.

“Bertrude, Hedwyn and Jodariel should prepare for the Rite against the Dissidents.”

“This knight is impressed at Master Reader’s speed of speech.”

Tariq smiles, fixing his hat. “It was not a direct quote.”

Unsurprisingly Jodariel doesn’t feel light anymore. Just the same old shade of tired.)

——————

“Pamitha.”

The Harp hums but doesn’t look away from the sky, wings resting on the window. Jodariel inhales, steeling herself.

“I apologise for my words.” Pamitha looks at her askance, curious but thankfully silent. Jodariel might not have the courage to continue if she was interrupted. “I was angry, and it was defensive. I can’t guarantee it won’t happen again. I will try.”

Jodariel frowns, repeating the words in her head, before clarifying, “I will try not to repeat it.”

Not the sturdiest of olive branches, but it’s better than what lay between them.

Pamitha gives her a grin, far too pleased with getting an apology from Jodariel. Or at her pause to clarify. Or both. (It’s probably at both.) Yet when she speaks, her voice is soft and sincere.

“Thank you. And I really didn’t mean to hurt you. I was trying to calm the situation but –” She scrunches up her face, and looks down at her wings as a gust of wind blows inside. Jodariel tries not to stare at how it musses Pamitha’s hair. She’s not very successful.

“I suppose I could’ve picked my words better. Apologies, darling.”

Jodariel nods, but lingers by the window longer than necessary. Pamitha doesn’t say anything. Almost seems like she enjoys the company.

——————

The next Liberation Rite is against the Accusers, and the only good thing Jodariel can say about it is _At least it’s not the Withdrawn._

The fact that someone’s freedom is going to hang on Pamitha and Jodariel working together effectively – as the Reader was kind enough to give them both a few days’ warning – has her anxious enough as is. Pamitha is either unconcerned or hides it well.

The speed with which she agreed to a training session – _a physical one, so the Reader can rest_ –leans toward the latter. That doesn’t, however, make Pamitha any more accepting of criticism than she usually is (read: more likely to brush it off as a one-time mistake.)

“You leave your right side open when you fly.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“Maybe once.”

“I counted at least four times.”

If looks were daggers, Jodariel would have several lodged in her chest. Luckily the Downside has many things but not that, so she just has an irritated Harp glaring at her, with an anxious Hedwyn standing a polite distance away, holding their makeshift orb.

“You counted wrong,” Pamitha insists, planning murder as if Jodariel had insulted her family. Not that it is particularly hard to insult her sister but –

They are children of the Saint, and the Saint like their ancestors had been blessed by the Old Birds – or so mother liked to open her tales. And if they’ve inherited anything besides feathers and talons, it’s pride.

“My eyes aren’t failing me, yet.”

Jodariel regrets saying the words. Not immediately, no, and not the actual words so much so the implications. She regrets them when Pamitha’s whole demeanour shifts, when the displeased line of her lips, held carefully, stretches into a pleased grin, her eyes get a fire in them and she tilts her head curiously. Jodariel can practically hear the words _So you’ve been –_

“So you’ve been watching little ol’ me?”

Her eye twitches, while another part of her studiously ignores the heat building from both Pamitha’s face and her tone. Vanity might be another thing Pamitha Theyn inherited from the Old Birds.

“I observed your movements,” Jodariel says evenly.

“Which requires looking at me.” Pamitha raises her brow, grin stretching so much she’s showing teeth.

“Perhaps if you haven’t been flaunting your right side so much that would be true,” Jodariel shoots back. A spark of pride shoots through her when Pamitha drops the playful façade. However, it’s definitely not pride that runs down her back as Pamitha grits out _“prove it, then.”_

——————

Jodariel does prove it, albeit rougher than she intended.

She aimed to steal the ball from Pamitha’s grasp but the Harp twisted and Jodariel’s hand ended up swiping at Pamitha’s head with a crackling _whack._ Her helmet takes the blunt of it, but it ends up knocking Pamitha’s head into Jodariel’s horn. Hard.

It’s a Scribes’ blessed miracle how Jodariel manages to catch Pamitha and brace so her knees skid along the ground instead of the Harp. She grits her teeth at the sting, and slowly lowers Pamitha to the ground as Hedwyn jogs behind her.

“Pamitha?” Jodariel presses the backs of two claws against Pamitha’s cheek, barely skimming the redness when Pamitha flinches with a hiss. Bleary eyes blink up at her, brows furrowing.

“Jodi, I adore your face possibly more than the next bloke, but could you stand still?” She even raises her wing, feathers waving in front of Jodariel. As if trying to catch her but unsure _who_ to catch.

“I am standing still.” Just to prove her point, Jodariel grabs the wing, claws gently squeezing around her talons. Pamitha huffs, then turns to look at Hedwyn, only to furrow her brow once she presumably sees multiple Hedwyns.

“Now do you believe your right side’s open?” Jodariel prods, tugging at her wing to get Pamitha’s attention.

“Nonsense. I gave you that one. To bolster your self-esteem.” She flashes a confident smirk. Its edges flicker with pain.

“Mine’s fine. You’re the one who’s lying on the ground, dizzy.”

“You’re lucky glaring hurts, darling,” Pamitha bites back weakly, clearly more concentrated on twisting her feathers so their curl around Jodariel’s hand.

——————

She doesn’t expect Lendel’s threats to be anything other than waste of breath. He’d done it in their first Rite, and horribly underperformed. However, time has only made him bitterer, and being so close to freedom is making his team desperate.

Here is the truth – Desperate people don’t fall under your expectations.

They drive his Pyre to half its original height when the Accusers become _vicious._ Strike whenever the Nightwings try to approach their side of the field. Tossing the Orb just to disable a member of the Nightwings with an attack afterward. Going so far as to drag Pamitha down when she tries to fly over.

And the Voice is irritatingly silent, conspicuously ignoring it all.

Here is the problem – The Nightwings are so close, yet they are not.

There’s a flare of frustration in the back of her eyes, stretching down into a string of words in a language she doesn’t know but her tongue’s already moving to mimic silently. She only has time to look to her right, to the back of Pamitha’s mask, before the Harp dashes directly at two Accusers.

No dancing, no toying. Just anger and frustration.

Jodariel feels her Aura as if it were coating her skin and not Pamitha’s feathers, and feels the Reader hiss _turn back_. The Harp ignores it. Jodariel tosses the Orb to Zhae, signalling her to follow.

Jodariel remembers a situation like this – they were holding the line, little ways further than the Border, little ways into the Highwings’ territory. It was perhaps the fourth week of successfully holding it when a Harp broke through their line of archers and spearmen. Reckless, like Pamitha, charging through with naught but a broken sword.

Like her, Pamitha breaks through.

Like her, Pamitha’s oblivious to the other soldiers – the last Accuser, just out of the ashes.

If you ask her why she jumped, Jodariel couldn’t give you an answer. If you argue that letting Zhae jump, let her toss the Orb back to Jodariel and take out the Accuser, she’d nod and agree with you. If you point out how reckless it was to jump between the Accuser and Pamitha, how it could’ve set them back several steps, she would’ve said _I know_.

Here’s the thing – she does it anyway.

Lands in front of Pamitha, snarls down at the Accuser. She raises her hands, Aura simmering at her claws, mind focusing on the figure in yellow, but –

Dread washes over her back, raw and cold and simply waves of it. For a fleeting moment there’s a forest around her, grass beneath her and the yellow Accuser is something translucent and shapeless – like a fog of cold.

_No no no no_ pings at her like a small hammer to a bell. _Ding –_ a chill on her feathers – _ding_ – heart beating in her throat – _ding_ – talons scraping against icy skin, white as snow, cold as death – _ding_ – it burns, burns from inside, burns up her throat, like swallowing salamanders _– ding –_

She blinks and it’s swept away like a curtain. Her hands connect with a resounding clap, Aura flashing in a wave but the Accuser’s already in the air, already halfway over them.

Zhae lands in their Pyre with a resounding _whoop_ and it doesn’t matter. Not the Accuser, not the feathers tugging against her back, not the Voice’s bored declaration, not the Reader’s relief.

Doesn’t matter because here is the result – They win and Zhae’s free.

——————

(Jodariel looks back, but Pamitha keeps her gaze on their sigil, hidden behind the mask.)

——————

They are less festive this time around. Not at all because Volfred confirmed the stars are dying out, but completely because of that, yes. For most of them.

For the sad red bundle in her scarf it’s the departure of his favourite Nightwing. Jodariel can’t imagine why Ti’zo chose to flutter to her the moment they’ve settled but he did. And Jodariel did all she could to cheer him up. Letting him cuddle in her scarf was the only thing to get her a happy purr.

You wouldn’t say Pamitha Theyn’s sad by looking at her, she certainly had an amused smile on her face when she flew up to her perch atop the wagon with a bottle of moonshine. And Jodariel’s definitely heard laughter from up there, and the only thing remotely funny are Gilman’s dancing lessons.

It was Hedwyn’s idea – that’s all Bertrude relayed when she made a hasty exit to the wagon. Hedwyn’s idea, Tariq providing the music, Gilman providing instructions and the rest looking like fools. How they roped Volfred into this is a mystery. How they still haven’t noticed four people missing is a testament to how drunk they must be – after all, Pamitha decided to share the moonshine and then Bertrude decided to _improve_ it.

How does one tell Pamitha is sad? Jodariel hasn’t known the Harp to be a recluse when alcohol is involved. Not right in the centre of it, but definitely close enough to bask in it. Yet the fire hesitantly skims over the wagon, and Pamitha hasn’t moved from the roof since they’ve lit it.

“Jodi darling, please tell me you’re watching this catastrophe by the bonfire.”

“I am.” Jodariel looks up, noting Pamitha’s missing her moonshine and dangerously leaning over the side of the horn. She isn’t satisfied with Jodariel’s answer, however, letting out a long sigh.

“I hoped it was a fevered dream.”

“Were you not laughing a minute ago?”

“Well, it _is_ hilarious. A hilarious catastrophe.” There’s a giggle, and Jodariel’s mind halts at the combination of _Pamitha_ and _giggle_ – in the same sentence no less – to notice the Harp’s moved. Were she not tired from the Rite, she’d jump out of her skin and land on the roof at the touch of feathers on her arm.

Instead she cautiously turns her head, brow twitching as Ti’zo settles further to the back of her neck, and looks at Pamitha curiously. She’s studiously ignoring how close they’re sitting. It’s purely because the steps only have so much room.

_Not like she had to come down._

“Of course it’s hilarious,” Pamitha continues on. “Humans trying to dance is always hilarious.” Jodariel narrows her eyes. Pamitha’s lips quirk up. “However, this is only hilarious if you don’t have the basic knowledge of how dancing actually works.”

“They’re all right.”

Pamitha turns to her then, amusement shining on her face, only growing once her eyes land on Ti’zo. She stretches her wing out – slowly, Jodariel notes; slow enough she can watch each feather unfurl separately before it even reaches Jodariel’s chin. Slow so she can move away if she wishes.

“Their best dancer is asleep, darling.” Feathers tickle the underside of her chin. “They’re _doomed_.”

Jodariel raises her hand to cover Ti’zo, to protect him from the scrutiny, one claw dragging through his fur to soothe. She wants to ask how he’s the best dancer, but what comes out is: “You know how to dance?”

It’s not that funny, yet Ti’zo startles awake at the volume of Pamitha’s laugh. Jodariel barely offers any resistance as the imp scrawls out of the scarf to fly inside. She’s too mesmerised watching Pamitha double over with laughter, one wing clutching her chest and the other fanning the air.

“Oh that was a good one,” Pamitha wheezes, patting her chest. Her free wing goes to Jodariel’s thigh, daring a few quick taps before she pulls back. She shakes her head, eyes opening and finally seeing Jodariel’s unamused look (which she pulled at the last second, but hush.)

“Oh, that was a serious question,” Pamitha concludes.

“Yes.” Though her mood lightens a bit at the hint of a blush on Pamitha’s cheeks.

“Should clarify that, Jodi darling.”

“Should I?”

“I am still getting used to your sense of humour. Or the fact you’re using it around me at all.” The light from inside draws a sharp glint in her eyes, yet somehow eases around her smile. “Held it close like a most prized jewel.”

Jodariel raises her brows. “Have you actually seen me with jewellery, Pamitha?”

“Fair enough.” She inclines her head, shoulder raised to meet it in a half shrug.

“Are you going to answer my question or keep changing the subject?” Pamitha chuckles, barely any effort put into it.

“Yes, I know how to dance. Pretty good at that.” She scrunches up her nose at the sight of the dancing party by the bonfire. “Magnificent compared to that. Honestly how do you manage to butcher art so thoroughly?”

“Then show them.” Jodariel shrugs. She herself has never felt the urge to indulge in dancing. She’s grown rather rigid after the Academy and the Border, and then with the changes since walking the Downside. And dancing, as she remembers, requires fluidity in movement.

Pamitha hums. “It’s not a dance I could teach you. Unless you find a pair of wings, but then I imagine flying lessons are in order.”

Jodariel winces, goose flesh running up her arms at the thought of the chaos flying lessons would entail. Pamitha, however, finds it amusing – laugh muffled behind a wing.

“Even then –”

She stops abruptly, eyes downcast. Her wings are loose in her lap, end feathers sprayed out and flexing. She didn’t pay attention before, but the light from inside the wagon (from Bertrude’s nook) catches the sharp, unnatural ends of crimson.

Clipped.

In the back of her mind she knew the Commonwealth clipped the Harps before casting them down. Recognised the allusion spoken between Pamitha’s words, but it’s quite different to see evidence up front. As far as she can see they’re clean cuts.

Knowing the butchers working for the Archjudge, it’s a blessing.

“I don’t think I qualify anymore,” Pamitha’s voice is heavy with longing. She clears her throat and looks to the side, away from Jodariel. Even her wings fold to slip between her legs, to hide.

Ashamed.

For the first time Jodariel misses the nook in her chest, would rather have that and the words lodged inside than this hollow thing – seeping into her, threatening to engulf. Worse than the chill. Worse than the Bog. Worse than the foreign dread during the Rite.

In its wake, Captain Jodariel storms forward, fire and ash and blood following her, but also hollow eyes and shrieks and _death death death_. _For that’s what they bring._ And Jodariel had clung to her, like cloak during winter, like a child to a parent’s hand, like an obedient daughter to her angry father’s wishes.

_“I’m going to the Academy, mum.”_

_“We are people.”_

And Jodariel thinks, she doesn’t need Captain Jodariel anymore. Doesn’t need to cling to the teachings of the Commonwealth so rigidly. Doesn’t need to reduce individuals to generalisations, doesn’t need to cling to hate when she’s hardly ever truly hated Pamitha Theyn – prodding words, infuriating smiles, crimson feathers, light snores – _all of it._

Doesn’t need to hide behind her because _Careful what you wish for_ has her regretting ever wishing for the distance, has her regretting ever falling back into what was easy. She doesn’t need to hide because she’s not afraid anymore. Because the thought of not speaking to Pamitha, of making her feel ashamed – it’s far more terrifying than having feelings for her.

So she flips off Captain Jodariel.

So she extends her hand to Pamitha, palm up, and waits for Pamitha to look back before she declares: “These can’t be filed off.”

_Tit for tat._

——————

(The problem with finally embracing she has feelings for Pamitha, and embracing that they will stay regardless whether Pamitha’s a Harp or not, is: it slams into her tenfold. As if she were standing with her hooves sunk deep in the sand and the waves just washing over her.

For once Jodariel doesn’t think about the size of the waves, or the frequency or how she’s going to get out. No, for once she’s going to feel the water against her cheek, feel the warmth of the sun radiating above her, smell the salt and just _be_.)

——————

“I don’t know what you’re moaning about, Jodi darling. Think of all the wonderful back scratches you could do with these.” Pamitha flexed her talons against Jodariel’s palm, causing feathers to skim along her knuckles. Jodariel tries not to wiggle at the ticklish motions. Tries not to think about the burning at the back of her neck. Tries not to think about who she could give back scratches to.

Tries not to do a lot of things around the Harp it seems.

“You try holding needles with these,” Jodariel argues, willing her voice to remain steady. “Or charcoal. Or pens.”

She near makes a whine when Pamitha’s wing slips away. Jodariel clamps her teeth on it, cutting it off at a sharp exhale. Pamitha brings both wings close, tucking them beneath her chin, and fans out her feathers.

“Preaching to the choir,” Pamitha points out, raising her brows.

Although it’s not the point, Jodariel stops at the expression. “Do you have choirs?”

Pamitha furrows her brows in disbelief. “Of course! We have many things –” She gestures with her wings, as if to show off all they have, before she realises she’s encompassing a “horrendous” dance lesson. She promptly drops her wings, scoffing in disgust.

Jodariel bumps their shoulders, trying to distract her and hopefully back to their conversation.

“You know, I don’t understand why you must think of us as savages.” A dark frown cuts into her features. “As if we sprung from caves and decided to wage war because we had nothing.”

“Propaganda.” So ingrained and thorough it’s as frustrating as the noise Pamitha makes – high-pitched and sharp. “Surely you had some about the Commonwealth.”

“You used statues for soldiers. You cursed your own soil and wished to expand. Your streets run with money and blood. There was once a royal who married a Harp, but the marriage fell through – hence the war. You’re ruled by an egomaniac. Shall I go on?”

_Well they got one right._ “Ruthless.”

Pamitha flashes her a predatory smile. “Thank you, darling.”

“So what do you have? Besides choirs and propaganda,” Jodariel adds, because left to her own devices with that smile isn’t a good idea.

Pamitha leans close, smile turning playful and this is definitely _worse._

“I have many things, Jodariel.” Is – is Pamitha Theyn _flirting_ with her? Truly? No. No, Jodariel’s tired and the light’s playing tricks on her. (Never mind that the light can’t play with voices and tone and intent.)

“The Highwings and not your closet.”

“Booo.” Pamitha pouts before slipping back to sit at a reasonable distance – meaning their shoulders still brushed – and dives into a list of things the Highwings have, pointedly keeping to the things the war hasn’t ruined. Not without digressions to ask about the Commonwealth of course.

Jodariel hears every second word. Her senses keep darting to where Pamitha’s talon is casually lying atop Jodariel’s claw on the steps. And those little grins as she words her questions tell Jodariel the Harp knows _exactly_ what she’s doing.

Well good, she supposes. Because she has no idea.

——————

If any of the others hadn’t been so drunk they passed out near the bonfire, they’d notice Jodariel fell asleep leaning against the wagon, Pamitha’s head pillowed on her shoulder.

If Bertrude happened to leave her nook, her eyes (and snakes) would linger on Pamitha’s wing, cradled in Jodariel’s lap.

Tariq notices both, and stops at the sight of dark claws poking between feathers. He goes inside, and comes back to drape a blanket over them. Then he goes to the bonfire to do the same for the rest of the Nightwings, with a smile on his face.

——————

“You never said why you knew how to dance,” Jodariel says conversely, eyes following the Reader and Hedwyn’s movements as they try to make this garden a tamed thing again.

It’s just her luck that three days after she talks to Pamitha about her changes – the painful transition from human to Demon – they start up again along her forearms. Black tendrils at first, like a second pair of veins, then the ash blackness spread further, like glass cutting along her skin, waking her and thus everyone else that morning.

Bertrude had given her something for the pain, taste as sour as its colour. It left her sluggish, heavy, but it’s a price she’d pay ten times over the alternative.

“Need there be a reason for childish impulses?”

Jodariel leans her head back, resting it against the garden wall. Her eyes squint against the sun until Pamitha’s hunched shape comes into focus. Questioning gaze, lopsided smile and all.

“No. Guess not.” Jodariel hopes she managed a shrug. It might just be a minimal movement however. “Figured magnificence in any skill requires more than an impulse.”

Jodariel closes her eyes, and saviours the little snort before Pamitha masks it with a laugh.

“It takes one irritatingly persistent aunt,” Pamitha says. “And perhaps a few stories. Perhaps a sister who could carry a tune. Perhaps a little girl’s dream of being a dancer like from said stories.”

A heavy silence lingers between them, reminiscent of the sweltering air on the edges of the desert, heralding the sea beyond.

“But,” Pamitha breaks it with a cautious tone, “the sister stopped singing. Started crying for war. And the little girl got swept away in a war that leaves no room for dancers.”

Jodariel opens her eyes, but Pamitha’s looking straight ahead, chin held high. It doesn’t help hide away the sadness – old and worn, like a book when the Reader leafs through it time and again – edges frayed, spine cracked.

_They took my skies._ They took much more.

Her hand’s moving toward Pamitha’s knee, claws a whisper away when she realises she doesn’t know what to say should she get Pamitha’s attention. _Sorry_ fells hollow and flat on her tongue. _Sorry your sister’s turned murderous_ is just biting. _I’m sure she sang better than_ _she fought_ is another level of insulting. _You’ll dance again_ is either a blatant lie or wishful thinking.

Thankfully Pamitha snaps out of it, looks down where Jodariel’s claws touch her knee, and Jodariel doesn’t have to say anything for a long while. Just look and hope she understands. Hope her presence is enough.

Pamitha smiles – slowly, a frail little thing; ready to drop if Jodariel would point it out, which she wouldn’t – and Jodariel thinks maybe she understands.

Maybe it’s enough.

——————

“So what did little, adorable Jodi want to be when she grew up?” Pamitha asks, innocently enough. The sun’s higher in the sky and Jodariel can see her without losing her sight. She sees the amusement on Pamitha’s lips, no doubt imagining a small Jodariel.

Whatever she imagines, she’s getting it wrong.

“A painter, once.” Jodariel huffs, and flexes her shoulders against the stone wall just to be sure she can still feel them. Just so she doesn’t mistake the stone for smoother Commonwealth masonry. “Then a carpenter.”

“Truly? She didn’t want to be a soldier immediately?” Jodariel glares at her. Pamitha raises her wings in defence, not at all sorry. “In my defence I may have actually thought you came out all grown up.”

Jodariel shakes her head, eyes turning heavenward. “You’re impossible.”

“Why thank you, darling. I try.”

“I thought it was effortless.”

“Oh no, I put so much work into making myself as impossible as –” she stops, letting out a thoughtful noise. Then she turns to Jodariel, leans forward with a serious look that has Jodariel’s nerves stand on edge. “If I say as impossible as I possibly can, is that an oxymoron?”

Jodariel blinks. “What?”

“It’s a serious question, darling,” she says matter of fact. “I can’t very well contradict myself when I’m trying to prove a point.”

“Why am I still speaking to you?” Jodariel covers her face, the back of her eyes flaring with a headache, and the urge to be anywhere but this close to Pamitha – having this ridiculous discussion – simmering beneath her skin.

“Because of my charming personality of course,” Pamitha supplies so quick she must’ve had that one ready.

“The Crone’s tonic more like.”

Pamitha clicks her tongue, says with a tone so dramatic it can only be fake, “Well, no need to go for the jugular, Jodi. How will I live now? My hopes, my dreams, ruined!”

And Jodariel’s surely drunk on Bertrude’s tonic to be laughing at such a display. Never mind how the pain’s flaring up her forearms or how her chest’s light and warm at Pamitha’s proud grin, the Harp barely containing her own laughter.

——————

_Deep shit indeed_ , she thinks as they return to the wagon, pain in her arms long forgotten in favour of Pamitha teasing Hedwyn.

_Really really deep shit_ , she concurs while she spends the night outside, pain keeping her awake, the Harp and Reader keeping her company; and the nook in her chest isn’t a nook anymore – it’s a full-fledged room.

——————

Or perhaps it’s time to call a spade a spade.

——————

Here is an incomplete list of what she knows:

-How to beat out dents in her armour

-The coldness that announces Bertrude

-Hedwyn isn’t the best cook, but he tries his best

-How a Harp scouting party hunts

-The wraith in the orb means a lot to the Reader

-To list at least five of the Scribes after four gulps of moonshine

-How to mend clothing even if her claws are a hindrance

-How to work with little sleep and an undercurrent of pain

-She’s in love with Pamitha Theyn.

 

Here is also an incomplete list of what she doesn’t know:

-How to carry a tune

-How to hurdle the drive imps back into their nook without a bribe

-Constellations in the night sky

-To see an unfamiliar Harp and not immediately think _threat_

-The odd scribbles Bertrude uses to label her bottles and poultices

-Why Tariq seems to liven up at nightfall

-How such a small Wyrm as Gilman can have so. Much. Energy

-No, honestly, how?

-How to handle anything to do with loving Pamitha Theyn.

——————


	5. Feeling more than you can see

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jodariel sits on the question – sits on the various ways to formulate the question – for well over two weeks. Two weeks for it to bounce from one end of her mind to the other. Two weeks to try and pull every suggestion of memories about it she might’ve overheard way back, just so she doesn’t have to actually _ask_ it.
> 
> “Hedwyn.”
> 
> “Yeah?”
> 
> “Hypothetically, how does one court a Harp?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for how late this is. Life leaves me little time to write so I write where inspiration takes me. So the fic will be finished, I just can't guarantee when updates will happen.
> 
> Anyway hope you enjoy!

_You’re lucky I like you_ is pressed into Jodariel’s forehead, tempting her from slumber like fingers beneath her chin – feather-light and soft and sorta ticklish.

_Because I can’t feel my legs_ is a siren song, curling over the waves moving beneath Jodariel’s head – drawing her to the sea, the tone eliciting shivers along her arms.

A name swims just out of reach. Jodariel shifts, trying to catch it, to see, to remember. She can practically taste it.

The waves shift beneath her head, tense into solid ground. “Jodariel?”

No, no that’s not the name. It’s – it’s crimson feathers and a sharp smile – it’s playful glances and fleeting touches –

It’s sweeping, swiping and flying. It’s tumbling down down down into slumber.

It’s hearing _“Acting like a fool again”_ and thinking _You’re not a fool._

——————

She waits for Pamitha to leave for town with Bertrude and Volfred, waits for the yard surrounding the wagon to empty before she goes back in. Her claws skip around the shelves, weaving over the various trinkets they’ve gathered on the road, until she reaches the bottle of wisps. They flutter to the spots where she’s holding the glass, dancing in an elaborate circle when she lowers them.

The good thing about colourful wisps is that they draw attention from whatever’s behind. Like say a sash she’s ignored for long enough. She dusts it off, looks for any tears or loose threads, then storms outside. Jodariel stops at the sight of Tariq sitting against the dead but blooming tree. He was there when she went inside, fixing a chain but –

He’s looking right at her, golden eyes glinting in the morning light, and his lips curl like he knows. (There is much he knows but doesn’t say, Jodariel muses. So of all the people to spot her, he’s the best option.) Jodariel raises a claw to her lips. He mimes a clamp over his mouth and twists it shut, before lowering his eyes to his broche and the silver chain.

With one last look, Jodariel jumps to the roof. It’s not the smoothest of landings, and she lunges to keep the flask of moonshine from tumbling over. Putting it back, Jodariel wraps the sash around it. Easy to find. Just to be sure, she fastens one end of it under the safety ties – wrapped along the horn after they crossed the sea.

She pulls back only to hiccup at the sight of the Harp’s helmet. Curiously Jodariel picks it up, turning it around to inspect the indentations and scratches. Even the lilac feather’s split near the edges. Worn from use and war and yet it’s holding up. And yet Pamitha’s been leaving it behind more and more. Jodariel remembers a time when the Harp went to sleep with it, as if afraid she’ll be attacked in the night.

Delicately Jodariel lowers it back. Before she can second-guess herself and think, _hey maybe this is a bad gift_ or ponder the odds that Pamitha will just toss it away, Jodariel jumps down and goes back to fixing the wagon wheels.

——————

(It takes her an embarrassing amount of time to realise she’s tinkering with the _wrong_ wheel.)

——————

They return before lunch, and thankfully Jodariel’s helping Hedwyn in the kitchen else her mind would catch on every little sound coming from the roof, trying to discern Pamitha’s reaction from even the most coincidental creaks. Coincidentally Hedwyn also saved the drive imps from getting tossed out, what with their sudden need to flutter and jump about the top of the wagon.

Jodariel can’t even think _she hates it_ when Ti’zo’s trying to swoop down and steal pieces of fish from the pan. Never mind he has a bucket filled with fish, labelled with a very lifelike drawing of the imp.

It’s only when they all gather at the table and Pamitha sits deliberately across from her, dark sash wrapped around her waist and – certainly not subconsciously – tossed over her shoulder, shooting glances at Jodariel as they pass the bowls and dishes –

Wait she was going somewhere with this –

_Gorgeous_.

Ah yes, that. That is the first thought, or several, in Jodariel’s mind at the sight of the Harp. They’re refreshingly light – no anxiety snapping at the heels (hooves,) no fear biting at her neck, no unwanted memories souring her mood. Jodariel’s free to appreciate Pamitha wearing the sash she made – free to appreciate as one person with a crush does the object of their affections. _Refreshing._

Rather belatedly, roughly around the time she stuffs a large chunk of fish in her mouth, does the other thought catch up with her – _Murr’s twisted tongue, she’s wearing it._

Needless to say Gilman had to repeatedly pat her on the back to get the fish down. At least it gave her an excuse for the blush.

——————

It’s not her proudest moment, falling asleep with her head cradled against the Blackwagon’s steps when she insisted she’s fine and the Reader doesn’t need to keep watch. Thankfully the woman didn’t listen to her, and thankfully the Reader won’t mention this to anyone.

And if she sees Pamitha place a kiss on Jodariel’s cheek, sears it through the dream; if she hears Pamitha whisper _it’s lovely, darling_ so melodiously it lulls Jodariel further – well, the woman just smiles happily at Jodariel and doesn’t say anything. (There’s a shadow of a laugh at the back of her mind, with the striking aroma of sulphur. The green orb flickers as she passes it.)

——————

Jodariel sits on the question – sits on the various ways to formulate the question – for well over two weeks. Two weeks for it to bounce from one end of her mind to the other. Two weeks to try and pull every suggestion of memories about it she might’ve overheard way back, just so she doesn’t have to actually _ask_ it.

Two weeks for her to realise she’ll have to ask it.

It’s in these small moments that Jodariel’s glad Rukey’s back in the Commonwealth, only insofar as he can’t tease her. And he would delight in teasing her about this. It would be borderline insufferable. Or maybe she’d get some wisdom out of him in between.

“Hedwyn.”

“Yeah?”

Though it would be along the lines of _Take a leap, sister_ instead of, say, _Don’t ask stupid questions._

“Hypothetically, how does one court a Harp?”

Hedwyn falters next to her, the map slipping from his grasp mid-roll. Jodariel reaches out, snatches the map with one move, and grabs Hedwyn by the shoulder with the other. Even when she straightens him, he looks like he’s close to fainting so she tightens her claws.

“We should sit.”

He nods quickly, jerky motions causing his bandana to slip over his eyes. Then he quickly shakes his head, and steps forward blindly. Jodariel carefully stops him from going out of her reach, repeating his name.

At the fifth repeat he finally slips his bandana back in place. Jodariel hesitantly lifts her hand. He inhales, nods a few times to himself and finally looks up at her.

With a big smile.

“So you want to court someone,” he says, sounding far too pleased at the notion. It feels starkly like how a brother would react, and Jodariel’s caught unprepared because she’s never been at this side of it. Didn’t have much time or reason to.

“No. It was a hypothetical,” she points out, slowly handing over the map, less she accidentally poke through it. He takes it, smile dimming and brows pinching but still hopeful underneath.

“But – _now_?”

Jodariel shrugs. “I’m curious.”

“So why not ask Pamitha?” Because on the list of things not to do, asking Pamitha Theyn about courting Harps is just a line below jumping off the Nest of Triesta.

“Do you want to finish Volfred’s plan without me? Because she wouldn’t let me live this down.” Oh no, she’d laugh, possibly call her ridiculous among other things and just make a fool out of both of them just to tease Jodariel further.

Or even worse – she might catch on.

Hedwyn inclines his head in agreement. “Although I think Bertrude could bring you back.” He raises his hands at the positively horrified look Jodariel’s giving him. “It’s in the realm of possibility for us, okay? I’m sure it would be fine.”

“Oh yes, floating as a spectre in a perpetual limbo sounds _delightful_ , Hedwyn,” Jodariel says evenly. She starts moving down the street like they originally meant to do. Ready to drop this whole thing. She’ll figure it out. Pamitha is still wearing her new sash so she must’ve done something right.

“Well, courting a Harp is kinda like that.”

Jodariel nearly trips on her own hooves, before Hedwyn adds, “For me anyway.”

_Delightful._ Flinging herself from the Nest of Triesta is sounding better and better.

“Though courting Pamitha might – uh – be like that as well? Jodariel, wait,” he says, confused as she abruptly passes him to go the _other_ way. “Where are you going?”

“To fling myself off the nearest tall building,” she shouts back.

Definitely a better idea than this conversation.

——————

She doesn’t fling herself off anything. Hedwyn catches up to her before she even spots a suitable candidate for a perch. They had to go through the part of town meant for humans.

“There’s nothing wrong with courting Pamitha,” he starts, in between deep breaths.

“I’m not courting her.”

“Then… who else?”

“I never said I was courting anyone. I asked in hypotheticals,” Jodariel bites out harsher than it warrants. He’s just trying to help, and she did ask him and now she’s being needlessly difficult about it to what – protect her pride? So he doesn’t hold it against her?

He looked positively giddy when she asked. Would he really do that if he’s still sore about her reaction at the first mention of Fikani, even after a dozen apologies? Surely not. Yet there’s that little voice, whispering _but but but._

A hand gently touches her forearm, right where the darkness has stopped, and Jodariel suppresses a flinch. She looks down, realising suddenly she’s holding onto a stone yard wall. Or rather she’s crushing a piece of it in her grasp.

“All right. Fine.” She throws the remains of the wall down, waves her hand to shake off the dust. With a heavy exhale, touching upon a rumble in the back of her throat, Jodariel sits just to the right of the crumbled part of the wall.

Hands on her knees and leaning heavily on them, Jodariel mumbles, “I’m trying to court Pamitha.”

The words feel clumsy now that they’re in the air, and Jodariel wishes she could take them back just to say them again the way they’re supposed to – the way they’ve been tumbling around her mind, her chest.

But the air gets stuck in her throat, so this’ll have to do.

“Well, that is – ” He whistles, and Jodariel watches him carefully as he sits down next to her, map tucked into his satchel. He nods to himself, much like she did when she thought about asking him, and gives her a proud smile. “You two have come a long way.”

Jodariel nudges him with her shoulder. Lightly so he doesn’t topple over, but quickly enough so he doesn’t notice her blush along the neck.

“Well, Fikani and I didn’t actually have much time to do anything properly. Or how we’d like, I imagine.” He smiles ruefully, thumb pressing into his palm. A nervous habit. “There was singing –”

Jodariel wrinkles her nose, imagining how horrendously off-key her singing would be with such a deep voice as hers. No, she reasons, Pamitha would rather listen to Gilman’s marching songs than anything Jodariel could muster up.

“– and stargazing when the nights were calm –”

Jodariel hums, thoughtful.

“– dancing –”

Nope.

“Mostly, though, we just talked.” He shrugs, knowing how unhelpful it is as much as Jodariel. “I didn’t have much time to get her presents other than little carvings, or –” He blushes, embarrassed, “a rock that reminded me of her.”

If that is the case, Jodariel would have to gift her the entire weird forest on the side of Alodiel, purple streams and translucent beings and all. She doubts that’s actually possible – the land belongs to no one for a reason.

Or maybe an orchard, to the south of the Commonwealth, just beyond the Castariel Gate, closer to the canals. A spacious house with a wide balcony, practically stuffed with colourful pillows and stupidly extravagant.

Maybe when they’re free.

_If_ they’re free.

Jodariel frowns at the thought, blinking the orchard and a lounging Pamitha out of her eyes, forcing the disappointment down at the sight of a ruined street with equally ruined buildings. Look at her, making silly plans for a future she might not even have. Like a lovestruck fool.

“This is ridiculous,” Jodariel grumbles, combing through her hair, palms pressing into her forehead.

“I don’t think so.”

“I have nothing to offer her in this damned place.”

“Jodi –”

“If she would even accept anything from me.”

“Jodariel.”

And here comes the other thought that’s bounced in her head for the past two weeks, dampening her spirits further – _why would she even want me?_ Or its twin – _why would she want a Demon?_ Jodariel’s good enough to shove them away when it gets too much, but she’s not blind to their point.

She stands up with a long sigh, shoulders tight. “I shouldn’t have pestered you, Hedwyn. Forgive –”

“Jodariel!” She whirls around, surprised at the force behind his shout. Surprised, really, that he raised his voice at all. She can count on one hand how many times that’s happened, and they all fall before the Downside. “Why do you think she wouldn’t accept a gift from you?”

Jodariel scoffs instinctively. She spreads her arms, putting herself on display, and cocks her head, projecting _See?_

Hedwyn frowns, confused. As if there’s anything to be confused about – this is pretty straight forward stuff. “You think she’d prefer if you looked like before the Downside?”

She nods. Jodariel might not care much about how she looks at this point, but that was after _months_ of looking at her reflection and coming to terms that she is looking at herself and not someone else. After months of living through the pain of the changes. After months of adapting to her new body.

She isn’t blind to how Pamitha takes care in how she presents herself. Rarely does she catch a few feathers out of place or hair mussed from sleep but those quickly vanish as if they never happened.

Hedwyn smiles lightly. He beckons her forward, fingers waving rhythmically until she complies. Those same fingers reach out and tug at one of her hands, press into her blackened and dusty claws. He looks up to her with a mix of imploring and chiding.

“Jodi, this is the only you she knows.” He tugs at her hand when she tries to move away, insistently staring at her. “And if I were her, I wouldn’t care much for Jodariel, soldier of the Commonwealth.”

“Perhaps not. Doesn’t stop one from imagining –” And she waves her free hand, emphasising herself when words fail her.

“Maybe. But I don’t think she was looking at you and imagining.” His smile turns secretive, and he leans forward, a conspiratorial glint in his eyes. “They seemed like appreciative looks.”

Jodariel stares at him, dubious because – well, surely he’s wrong.

“I’m serious.”

Jodariel narrows her eyes, searching for any hint of amusement on his face. If he’s joking about this, she might just shove him off the wall and let him find his own way back to the wagon. Might even let him brave the next culinary concoction on his own, too.

“I swear to you on my pot.” He squeezes her hand, like he does whenever he made bets with Rukey – the Cur betting his coat, and Hedwyn his pot, and Jodariel overseeing without fail. Even over the silliest things, like finding a stone that best resembled a goat, the two were 100% serious.

With a laugh, Jodariel tugs him forward so she can wrap her free arm around him and mumble a _thank you._

——————

(“You could also see what Ron has to offer,” Hedwyn says, several streets deeper into the city and the sun settling to their left.

“I’d sooner file my own horns,” Jodariel deadpans. It earns her a slap on the arm.

“He’s not that bad.”)

——————

(Hedwyn’s right – Falcon Ron isn’t that bad.

He’s worse.

And he has nothing she wants – unsurprising – yet like a true trader he’s trying to make it into something she wants. His effort would be commendable if he learned to condense his talking and not digress into oblivion.

Thankfully Volfred distracts Ron into another digression – about volcanoes of all things – and Jodariel makes a hasty exit. There’s a distinct feeling of someone patting her shoulder, followed by a dash of sympathy, but when she turns around Volfred’s paying attention to Ron, his back to her.)

——————

She glares longswords at the Sap – yes, longswords; daggers are too small for the levels of frustration she’s feeling – stuck between Bertrude and the Reader while Falcon Ron drivels opposite of her, flapping his cards about instead of bloody playing. She’s glaring at Volfred because he’s the last to speak with Ron and he’s to blame for all of this as far as she cares.

Pointedly avoiding her glares just paints him guiltier.

“Bertie –”

“Donst refer to us as such, Reader,” Bertrude cuts in, staring calmly at her cards. Jodariel has her own face down on the table so Bertrude’s snakes can’t look. She doesn’t know whether the Crone sees what they see, but she’s not risking it.

“Sorry. Just. Hold up.” The Reader leans behind Jodariel. “Could you hypothetically make him shut up?”

The Crone lets out a thoughtful noise, eyes flickering to Jodariel then behind her to the Reader. “Aye. However, we’re missing a Salamander’s Eye for that particular concoction.”

The Reader groans, and Jodariel pats her thigh in sympathy, the other hand rubbing circles above her left eye. She pauses when it seems like the slug will finally put down a card. But he wrinkles his nose, returning it back to his hand, and Jodariel is this close to slamming her head against the table.

(Ti’zo does, right across from the Reader, grumbling things similar to obscenities.)

Pamitha drops her cards on the growing pile in the middle with a loud exhale, bordering on a groan. She stands, and a familiar thrill runs through Jodariel at the sight of Pamitha wearing her sash. Never mind that she’s been doing that every odd week.

“I adore cards as much as the next feathered member of my lovely species, but I find myself favouring a more –” She clicks her tongue, staring pointedly at the trader, who’s oblivious to the attention. “Decisive ambience.”

She walks behind the Reader, patting her shoulder – and is that talon pointing at a specific card or is it a twitch? Pamitha moves away and it must be a twitch, right? She’d have to say something if she wanted to help the Reader cheat –

Feathers run along Jodariel’s shoulders, and Jodariel nearly crushes her cup. The touch is careless, almost thoughtless. But Jodariel knows her better than that. The only time Pamitha Theyn makes a thoughtless move is when she sleeps. Feathers catch on Jodariel’s scarf as she turns to look over her shoulder, that maddening grin greeting her.

It’s all she gets, Pamitha proceeding to Bertrude and telling her _“Don’t beat them too much, Bertie,”_ and the Crone scoffs. Three snakes watch her closely as Jodariel turns back to the table, but they’re not as pointed as Hedwyn’s look and grin.

Mercifully Ron finally decides on a bloody card.

——————

Jodariel finds her sitting atop a barn, shadowed in the sunset and eyes lost in the sky.

“Out so soon, darling?” she says once Jodariel reaches the base of the barn. Not at all surprised. Like she’s been sitting on it. Jodariel eyes the barn – sturdy enough, and about half the size of the house flanking it. An easy enough jump.

Pamitha looks away from the sunset, greets her with a pleased smile. Reminiscent of a fresco in the Commonwealth market. Positively breathtaking – if whatever’s scratching at Jodariel’s neck would just _stop_. It had followed her from the wagon, and she characterised it to the scarf. It’s overdue a wash after tending the gardens. Yet the jump – or the landing – had made it worse, so it can’t be just the scarf.

She tugs the scarf back roughly, grumbling, and something catches at her claws before slipping between them. A card – the Queen of the Valley – or what’s left of her what with her face fading and the valley meshing together from time and use.

“My my, Jodariel.” Jodariel narrows her eyes at Pamitha’s shocked expression. The Harp even spreads her feathers against her chest, pitches her voice higher – breathier – “ _Cheating_? At cards no less.”

“I didn’t cheat,” Jodariel snipes back, card flipping between her claws – _flip – flip – flip –_ as she walks over. Her mind flashes back to Pamitha’s departure, fixating on feathers against her back. Catching her _scarf_. Jodariel didn’t pay enough attention to the Harp’s cards but she’s certain what happened.

“Lost fair and square without your card.” And Jodariel twists the card with her thumb so the Queen’s looking at Pamitha. The back of the card’s elaborate – red and white feathers twisting into spiral towers only for a blue line to break them and connect into a sign in the middle. It tickles at a memory but Jodariel can’t quite find it.

“ _My_ card?” Pamitha points two talons to herself, blinking innocently. Cute as it is, and committing it to memory aside, Jodariel’s not buying it.

“You know it’s yours.”

In a blur of movement Pamitha snatches the card from Jodariel’s claws, slams it between them while leaning close on the same wing. She flashes an arrogant smirk, brows tugged up and practically invading Jodariel’s space. Practically shoving the leftover afternoon heat into her face.

Or perhaps it’s all her.

“Do I?” Pamitha flashes her teeth, lips twitching back into a snarl but not really reaching. Provoking her. Jodariel will deny the thrill shooting down her back ever existed. More so the reason behind it.

“Is it so hard to admit it?” Jodariel growls out from deep in her throat, the rest of her voice refusing to dislodge from her throat.

“Why don’t you make me, darling?”

Oh. _Oh._ Those words. She had to say them, didn’t she? She had to set Jodariel’s nerves on edge, had to rekindle coals in her chest, had to lure her in with the most tempting of siren songs.

Had to say _make me_ and let her mind form _kiss me._

Had to just bring that out of Jodariel like she hadn’t been keeping a tight lid on it.

A bit slips past, and Jodariel jerks her hand forward, like she’ll catch it. What she swipes, however, is at the card tucked between them, and Pamitha anticipates this. Anticipates for she jerks it back, twists so she’s protecting it with her body. And Jodariel’s claws reach not stone but Pamitha’s sides, briefly at that. Pushes enough to scrape against skin through cloth.

Pamitha jumps back with a yelp and everything _stops_. Jodariel can pinpoint the moment realisation dawns on the Harp, and the Harp slams a wing against her mouth, horror growing in her eyes and nearly masking the colour filling her cheeks.

“You’re –” Jodariel starts but Pamitha’s gone with a beat of wings, an afterimage of crimson dancing before Jodariel’s eyes. Her grin grows at the blatant confirmation. “Ticklish.”

Well, well, well. Isn’t that something?

Her eyes settle on the stone wall – the Queen of the Valley marking where Pamitha sat. Jodariel picks up the card and carefully turns it over in her hand. The fading face of the Queen snatches her attention – the contrast with the (albeit stylised) elegant regalia, and long-spanning wings of silver.

And slowly something clicks into place.

——————

Pamitha doesn’t come back for the card.

She does come back for dinner and gives Jodariel a sharp _nothing happened_ look so Jodariel’s not too worried.

Saves her the effort of memorising the card for reference.

——————

“Blanks?” Volfred asks, and breathes out smoke in the shape of a miniature blank parchment.

Jodariel resists the urge to wave it away. “Yes.”

Volfred narrows his eyes, slowly lowering his pipe to get a better look at her. It makes her restless, but Jodariel holds steady. “What for, my girl?”

“It’s private.”

“Vague.”

“It’ll have to do.” She feels a pressure behind her eyes as she speaks the words. Pulsing akin to a bird pecking on wood, only slowed, with an ear to the wood. Jodariel forces it back, only to find it missing and Volfred slowly smiling.

“I’ll see what I can do, Jodariel.” He leans back, pipe in his mouth. He makes another puff of smoke, no shape forthcoming. Jodariel wants to ask, feels the questions on her tongue, but thinks better of it.

——————

The Reader had summoned them into the orb to practice for the forthcoming cycle of Rites. The wraith had been more than ready to summon various opponents from the Beyonders’ ranks – and Jodariel wonders, not for the first time, just how many of them there are. However, not all of them were ready to work together, as evident by the most recent group of three – a Harp, a Cur and a human – still arguing near the green Pyre.

“Is this common?” Hedwyn asks, sitting cross-legged between Gilman and Bertrude, chin in hands.

“Yes.” The wraith’s – _Sandra,_ corrects the Reader – Sandra’s sigh is muffled by her mask. There’s a sense of frustration circling around her, and if Jodariel puts her hands out, she might touch it. The Reader had said she’s better, was hesitant to say _“she’s recovered from her emotional ditch”_ but Jodariel didn’t wish to pry further. Especially since the Reader’s cheered up.

“Isn’t working so close together supposed to bring people closer?” Pamitha muses.

“Restlessness is a knight’s second most heinous opponent,” supplies Gilman, straightening his tail and jutting his chest proudly.

“Yeah, no, we just got fucking annoyed with each other,” Sandra corrects evenly, mask still pointed at the trio, as if she can will them into cooperating. Could she?

_No._

Sandra laughs, yet the amusement is hollow, skimming on polite. “Don’t reveal all of my secrets, darling Reader.”

_Sorry._

Ti’zo makes a thoughtful few clicks, and jumps from one of Jodariel’s horns to the other.

_No, I can’t. They’re Sandra’s ducklings._

“My _what_?” Sandra asks incredulous in the same beat Pamitha snickers a _“wraith ducklings.”_

_It’s an expression._

“I’m aware. I simply find it completely misrepresents the situation.”

Jodariel sighs, and drops her arms, opting to do something rather than stand around like gossiping children. Ti’zo flutters down at her abrupt movement, his chirps following her as she reaches Pamitha – way on the other side of their little group. _(“Don’t fancy wraiths much less assassin wraiths, darling.”)_

“Help me with something?” Jodariel asks. She’s been sitting on this idea since the last Liberation Rite, and it’s not exactly safe for the Harp; and Jodariel won’t demand her to do it, so it’s vital that she _asks_. Also she might’ve spent too much time ruminating the idea.

Pamitha tilts her head curiously, but stands up in a fluid motion. “Since you’re being so polite, Jodi,” she says and raises her wings expectantly.

“I need you to stand on my hands.”

Pamitha’s wings drop in the same breath as she deadpans _“Pardon?”_

It takes some manoeuvring and help from Hedwyn, but Pamitha is unsteadily crouching on Jodariel’s hand; with one wing holding onto her horn for stability, the other pressing into the shoulder by the Harp’s feet. It’s not a smart idea, she’ll admit. And perhaps it’s a leftover from all the irritation Pamitha drew out of her, but, but – when you put all of that aside, the idea of “throwing a Harp so she covers more distance quicker than flying” makes sense.

Like throwing a spear.

“Ready?” Pamitha nods. With a final pat on the horn, she releases it, and the other wing slides from her shoulder. Jodariel inhales, breathes out _one – two – three –_

And puts all of herself into the throw. It damn near sends her toppling over her head, but it doesn’t matter. Pamitha is soaring – soaring and not face-first in the dirt. Soaring through the skies, wings held close, riding the current. She stretches them at the apex – right overhead the three Beyonders – and tries to steady herself.

Emphasis on _tries_.

In the next blink Pamitha’s gone, fading like she’s been banished and Jodariel’s blood freezes over. Even Sandra’s exuberant laughter falls silent. Even the three Beyonders stop to look what happened. Even the Reader’s presence stills.

“Reader?” Jodariel asks hesitantly. She takes a step forward, uncomprehending. She didn’t touch the green Pyre, only a competitor’s Aura or the Pyre’s flames can banish them. So how? Briefly she registers an _uh-oh_ , before Pamitha slams into her back, momentum taking them both to the ground. Jodariel raises her head, chin pulsing, ready to call out only for a foot to slide into her eye.

“Am I dead?” Pamitha breathes out. Jodariel feels something quickly patting along her sides until it finds her hand. It curls around her hand, squeezes once as she breathes out _“nope, still here”_ and Jodariel realises it’s Pamitha’s wing.

_She’s fine. Breathe out – she’s fine._

“What happened?” Hedwyn asks. Sandra promptly bursts into another fit of laughter.

“You went through the boundary,” is what she’ll say once the laughing stops. For now, Jodariel has the privilege of it echoing around her while Pamitha collects herself atop her, feet still in Jodariel’s face.

(Don’t misunderstand, she’s thrilled Pamitha’s fine, but there are certain ways she wants Pamitha to sit on her, and let’s say this isn’t one of them.)

——————

(“Jodariel, you never said you had such a comfortable butt.”

“Get. Off.” She tickles Pamitha’s foot, and the Harp jumps off with a half-laugh, half-shriek.)

——————

(Volfred places a package right next to her pouch of threads without a word. She notices it one mended shirt later. Jodariel promptly tears it open and stops, claws slowly sliding along the box’s sides.

There are several dozen blank pieces of hardened paper – which she’ll have to cut down to the appropriate size of course – but next to it is a set of paint bottles, divided by two brushes. Seemingly undisturbed, in a better state than her mother had.

Beneath all the joy, a part of her is perturbed at how exactly Volfred knew she needed paint as well.)

——————

_She’s back at that pass, that little crack through the mountain, red and quiet and littering with bodies and –_

_She expects her hands to be red. But she doesn’t expect to see claws, doesn’t expect horns to weigh down her temples, doesn’t expect hooves – because that’s not how this nightmare goes._

_It should go: she enters the pass with her platoon, and relives the slaughter, relives the storm of Harps, crumbles to the ground, throat raw, voice spent, heart beating – thump thump thump against the ground, between her knees._

_But it goes: she’s already kneeling on the ground, heart pumping in her ears, claws bloodied and horns heavy against her head, heavy like judgement. And instead of soldiers and Harps, blue raiments are littered around her, stained red red red. Masks broken. Unmoving. She feels like dying, feels like carving her heart out and screaming into the heavens._

_Stop Stop Stop Stop Stop Stop_

_Blades flash against her neck, press against her back and tall figures dressed in teal and gold stand over her, stand over the Nightwings, examining with dark faces and she screams – leave them alone, don’t touch them, get away, don’t you **dare touch her**_

_“Captain Jodariel.”_

_That’s not my name, not my name, not my name, not my name_

_“What have you brought us?”_

_I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_

Jodariel wakes with a start, and she flinches away from the figure standing above her, arm raised for protection. The lights shift, and Jodariel breaths come easier once the figure crystallises into Pamitha. Still her eyes dart around the room, looking for the pass, the bodies, the Commonwealth soldiers, surely they’re hiding among the shelves, waiting to pounce and ruin everything, waiting to drag them all –

“Hey, hey, hey.” Feathers come around her cheeks, pressing insistently the more Jodariel tries to shake them off, until they force her to look at Pamitha. The sharp blue light above them – not the moon; not in the sky, but on a desk – catches on Pamitha’s eyes. Jodariel’s breaths come short at the open worry in them.

“It was a dream,” she says slowly, enunciating every word carefully. “It was a dream.” Her eyes never leave Jodariel, insistently draw her attention away from the talons caressing the dark circles beneath her eyes.

_Light as blades, sharp as knives, ready to poke your eyes out –_

Jodariel snaps her eyes shut, growling under her breath. Her claws dig into something soft, and belatedly Jodariel realises she’s grabbed onto Pamitha’s wings. _Blood, crimson red and sticky, tearing –_

There’s a hiss.

She jerks her hands away, snaps her eyes open – but there is no blood, no blood on her claws, no feathers loose. Her lips tremble, her words overlap, an apology rushing before being formed, but Pamitha just shushes her.

“It’s fine. You’re fine. You’re here.” Pamitha gives her a comforting smile, warm against the blue light, and it lights up her face. _Like the sun to the moon_ , she thinks and something settles in Jodariel’s chest. “You’re here, okay? In the wagon, in Bertie’s lab. With me. Okay?”

_“I’m not here for her.”_

Words failing her, Jodariel nods.

“And your hair is definitely not pink.”

Jodariel’s hands fly up to her hair, comb through her bangs before Pamitha’s smile breaks into snickers. Jodariel glares, then raises a brow at the tap against her cheek.

“There’s our Jodariel.” Now Jodariel might still be sleepy, but Pamitha sounds _wishful._ Her mind’s fixated on her voice to notice the Harp’s feathers linger longer than necessary.

——————

“What’re you doing here?” Jodariel asks once she’s calmed.

“I came to get my card.” Pamitha shrugs, like it’s a perfectly normal thing to do at however late in the night it is. Her eyes follow Jodariel closely as the Demon gets up. “Why are _you_ in Bertie’s nook?”

She goes for the simplest answer: “It’s quiet.”

And after the Rite against Oralech, even though she wasn’t in it, Jodariel needs quiet. You can imagine how it lingers with those who _were_ in the Rite, like say Pamitha. Despite projecting an aura of calm, she’s holding herself stiffly. Jodariel itches to run her hands down Pamitha’s wings, to soothe her like she calmed Jodariel, but it might not be welcome.

“That it is.” Pamitha sighs, deflating. She’s silent as Jodariel moves to Bertrude’s table. One glance tells her Pamitha’s lost in her own thoughts, so Jodariel hastily shuffles the blanks in a pile, moves the paint bottles between the Crone’s elixirs.

As an afterthought, Jodariel swipes the Queen of the Valley from the blanks.

“Do you – ?” Jodariel turns, waiting for the rest of the question, but Pamitha bites her lip. Uncharacteristically small and uncertain. Her eyes are imploring, willing Jodariel to understand. And she does.

“You can stay.” Jodariel thought she lost the softness that takes over her voice – had forgotten how to make it, didn’t think she _could_ make it again. Thought _perhaps it’s better it stays lost_ after falling to the Downside. Better than to be beaten out of her again by something like the Border.

But looking at Pamitha, at how relieved she is for that little moment she lets herself be, Jodariel thinks, _no, it’s good it came back._ Thinks, _there is room for softness here._

——————

“I still need that card, Jodi,” Pamitha mumbled into Jodariel’s shoulder. Sounded more like an afterthought than an actual request, especially since her voice’s heavy with sleep.

Jodariel’s lucid enough to pat her pockets. Once she finds it, Jodariel drops the card with its siblings in Pamitha’s lap. They should gather them properly, less they lose a card or several, but her eyes are heavy and she’s found a comfortable position for her neck –

Last thing she hears is a snore.

——————

(“At least neither of ye broke anything.”)

——————

(Jodariel had seen many sicknesses, but Banishment Sickness is truly something else. She’s been taught the basics of first aid, even taken some books on how to quickly soothe the most common sicknesses. All of those had some form of physical manifestation.

This one, aside from lethargy, didn’t.

When Zhae got it, after a Rite with the Pyrehearts, Jodariel could do nothing. She paced, she fidgeted, she fetched this and that for the Lone Minstrel but she felt like she did _nothing_. The Reader tried to console her, after Hedwyn failed, but achieved little more than force the words out of her.

“I am useless. She’s suffering – she’s only a _child!_ And I can only sit and watch, Reader.”

(When Hedwyn was sick she brought him food, and helped Rukey acquire the ingredients for stomach-soothing potions, and measured his temperature before others’ve gotten the chance and had that stupid, (not entirely) wasteful Trial with the wraith.)

And the Reader, patient and calm despite everything, tells her to sit by her side, that her presence helps as much as fussing over a potion or ointment. So Jodariel sat by Zhae’s side, watchful and constant, barely sleeping, as if the girl would grow worse should she blink for too long.

She doesn’t. Within a few days Zhae gets back to her lively, perky and exuberantly cryptic self again. Jodariel is relieved enough to sleep through the entire next Rite.

Or she would’ve had they not gone to Harp territory.)

——————

It is only the second Rite they’ve both participated in, and they’ve yet to solidify their coordination, but Jodariel is fairly sure something’s off with Pamitha.

No, Jodariel’s certain; as much a person who’s kept keen eyes on the Rites when she wasn’t in them. Pamitha is off her game – she’s faster than this, more aware of her opponents than this, more eager to get the Orb. And more talkative, a constant buzz at the back of Jodariel’s ears. She didn’t think she’d miss _that._

And Jodariel doesn’t trust the Chastity team. For comparison: at the beginning, prior to Pamitha making a bloody nook in Jodariel’s chest, Jodariel trusted Pamitha as far as she could throw her (which she didn’t know was very far); and she doesn’t even give this Manley that. No, if Bertrude would transform a viper into a Sap, Manley whatever-his-name would be exactly what came out.

So she keeps her eyes on the yellow raiments, while mostly passing the Orb to Ti’zo. Contrary to his size, the imp is quick enough to compensate for Pamitha’s sudden onslaught of lethargy. He zips past her left as she banishes the blabbering Sap (gratitude seeping from the Reader), and continues for the Orb. Jodariel stands her ground, opens her non-existent third eye for any of the Chastity players feeling bold enough to try something,

Like say the yellow Harp trying to fly over Pamitha’s head straight for their Pyre? (Yeah, that qualifies.)

“Harp. Pamitha! Above you!” Jodariel shouts, already running toward the Pyre, desperate despite knowing she’ll never make it. “Move, _move_ , damn it!”

She doesn’t get far, heat of an Aura hits her back, burning through foreign surprise and alarm – scorches her from the outside inward. The last thing she sees, coherently through her own eyes, is how Pamitha lunges for the passing Harp.

The next thing she sees without the blur and echoes and migraines that come with banishment, is little Ti’zo zipping past the annoying Sap and falling into their Pyre, extinguishing it with a final happy chirp.

Then Pamitha passes out before the Voice even finishes saying _Nightwings_.

——————

(“Oh dear. Seems you’ve got a faint one, Reader,” the Voice sounds almost giddy, and Jodariel’s ready to tear his throat out.)

——————

“Banishment Sickness,” says the Lone Minstrel while Jodariel’s struggling with Pamitha’s mask, claws refusing to cooperate, unable to find the clasp that should be right there, _it’s right there on her own mask, why isn’t it there?_

“Jodi. Jodi, it’s okay, I got it – Let me.” Hedwyn squeezes by her, hands gently moving hers away, offering a brief squeeze before setting to work. He finds the clasp – at the top, not at the nape – and has the mask off before Jodariel can breathe out.

Breathe out and stop. Stop and register the Minstrel’s words. _Banishment Sickness._ Nothing outwardly serious, nothing supposedly life-threatening if given enough time to rest.

“Bloody terrific.” Jodariel finally unclasps her own mask, scrapping her horns a bit in the hurry to get it off. They cannot leave Pamitha to rest in her old spot; no, putting her on the roof with only Ti’zo as the most reliable charge is out of the bloody question. “Put her by the triangular window.”

It’s the spot closest to the back door. Used to be a spot reserved for Jodariel so she can go out when her horns (or other things) make sleep difficult, but recently she’s been occupied with other things. Hedwyn hums absently, and Jodariel goes ahead to clear a path for them to carry the Harp over.

Because if she carries her, Jodariel might not let go.

——————

Doing something takes her mind off Pamitha and the incessant pounding in her chest, like a small hammer hitting upward to her throat. Doing something is familiar – carrying things, polishing her armour, checking the nooks and crannies for any nasty surprises – definitely not taking a brush and trying to paint –

Patrolling the perimeter.

Yet tonight the familiarity is fleeting. They’ve yet to leave the Spring of Jomuer and the rocks jutting out of sand just beyond are imposing, and make her walk straighter. And then there’s Pamitha’s mumbling, coming in and out of focus. Where Zhae’s been mostly quiet, mostly asleep, Pamitha has been very talkative after her five-hour long slumber. Mostly nonsense or fevered mumbling from what Jodariel’s picked up in passing.

Unfortunately Sir Gilman’s keeping her company, and Jodariel can hear him from her perch – 7 paces away from the wagon. Truly it’s only a matter of time before someone tries to shut him up. Like say a certain Sap that’s still unnerved from their Rite with Oralech. Or maybe the Reader would sic her wraith on him. ( _“No, Jodariel, I can’t do that.” A pause. “Or at least Sandra hasn’t said how to do that.”_ )

He tries to be quiet, but at this point Jodariel’s sure he’s been blessed with an opera singer’s vocal cords.

“Nonsense!” screeches the Wyrm-knight, and Jodariel winces, covering her ears and leaning on the open door. She really picked a good time to come back. “This knight sees you perfectly fine, therefore Lady Feathers has to be present at this time, in the glorious Blackwagon –”

“Sir Gilman,” Jodariel intones, mindful to keep her voice down. The Wyrm deflates his chest, tail curling back from pointing at Pamitha, who seems to be nursing a warm drink. “I fear the last Rite’s getting to me. Would you mind continuing my patrol? Surely the keen eye of a Wyrm-knight is more effective than my own.”

“Say no more, Commandant –”

“Again not a –”

“Of course this knight will continue your patrol.” If possible his chest inflates even more, and… are those _sparkles_ in his eye? “Why it is nothing short of an honour to take over from one so honourable as you. And to ensure the safety of this knight’s companions, there’s hardly anything more –”

“Quickly, if you will, Gilman,” Jodariel grits out, trying to keep her voice calm. There is so much of the Wyrm’s blabbering Jodariel can take on a good day, let alone tired and trying to keep him from getting throttled. He hurries to give her a salute, slapping himself so hard Jodariel winces. He slithers past her, already humming a marching song she’s certain only belongs to the Wyrm-knights.

For a brief moment Jodariel wonders whether this is a good idea.

“The little Wyrm’s got a mouth on him,” Pamitha says, eyes still on the door. Her brows are pulled tight, and she looks as if she’s trying to solve a puzzle.

_“Sometimes all you can do is be good company.”_

“He even speaks more than you.” Jodariel sits next to her, mindful of the blankets and half-eaten food.

“Excuse you, darling, I don’t blabber.” Pamitha looks at her, eyes dancing this way and that. As if she’s never seen Jodariel before. The thought is like a hand against her heart, fingers tightening.

“My mistake. It must be another Harp I know and share a wagon with.” Jodariel raises her brow in challenge, eyes unflinching. Not even when Pamitha’s eyes finally settle on her own and take on a strange shine.

“I don’t blabber. If anything I comment, snipe. But never during a Rite. Not when the Orb –”

And she falls silent then, blinking furiously. Her eyes stray to the centre of the room, where the Reader and Hedwyn are curled one over the other, blankets tossed to the side and Hedwyn’s bandana covering half his face. If she were to guess, Jodariel would say Pamitha sees the Celestial Orb rather than her friends.

_“Some find it hard to leave the Rite. Others may experience a perpetual state of banishment, as if they’re still floating betwixt it all.”_

“Pamitha,” Jodariel starts but her eyes catch the cup, how it’s slipping through red feathers. Without thinking Jodariel’s got her hand right under, easily catching the cup before Pamitha even registers that it’s slipped. But she does register, so that’s good. Means she’s not completely out of it.

But her eyes remain on her feathers, turning them over like one does when examining their hands. If she heard Jodariel, she doesn’t react. Jodariel wonders if Zhae was like this for Hedwyn and the Reader – if they had to gradually snatch her attention until it stayed.

“The Rite, I’m not – this isn’t – where are –” She covers her face, though it sounds more like she slaps herself than anything. Jodariel lowers the cup, and raises the same hand halfway to Pamitha’s shoulder when the Harp suddenly looks at her. It’s not the confusion that punches Jodariel in the gut, but the fear in Pamitha’s eyes – bare and raw, and unlike any Jodariel’s seen on her.

(But she’s felt it. Against the Accusers, dragging down her back, holding her voice, the phantom shout of her own name. They’ve not spoken of it. Jodariel doesn’t wish to think of it but – a shiver wracks her back at the sight of it.)

“There was a Rite, wasn’t there?” Pamitha’s voice cracks. She inhales and steadies herself for the rest, “I didn’t – it happened – you, me, Ti’zo? Against an obnoxious Sap with, with disputable fashion sense.”

“I’d say it matches his personality. But yes, it happened. We won,” Jodariel adds the last part as an afterthought. Pamitha nods, eyes lowering, and Jodariel’s struck with the urge to hug her. Pamitha bites her lip before she speaks again.

“What happened?” Pamitha’s voice is barely a whisper; Jodariel’s honestly surprised to have heard it. “I do remember,” Pamitha rushes ahead, “some of it. It’s – it’s a mess, but I remember you calling me. In your typical ‘I’ll bite your head off’ shout.”

_Typic-_

“Typical?” Jodariel frowns, crossing her arms defiantly. “If I have a typical shout, it’s definitely not like that.”

Pamitha chuckles, yet no matter how short it is, it soothes over Jodariel’s nerves like water from a spring. Like feathers against her hand amid a spooky tale. “Denial doesn’t become you, Jodi darling.”

Jodariel huffs. “Nothing important happened. The Sap kept talking. He kept losing until he lost completely.”

“And you were shouting because you wanted to drone him out? Outmatch the announcer fellow?”

“I always shout out there.”

“You’re not shouting right now.” But then Pamitha looks around her, releases a brief _oh_.

Without really thinking Jodariel takes one of her feathered arms, wrapping her claws around the end feathers, silently marvelling at how soft they are, despite the sand. She expected them to have small splits here and there.

Belatedly she registers curious eyes staring at her.

“I just, um,” Jodariel clears her throat, suddenly dry. Her neck’s burning. No she’s not avoiding eye contact. In fact she’s going to look at Pamitha unflinchingly, and ignore the little smirk on the Harp’s face. “You’re not there. You’re here, in the Blackwagon. I thought, maybe the contact, it’ll –”

“Help?” Pamitha offers once Jodariel’s tongue ties itself. The blonde nods minutely. It’s either a blessing or a curse that Sir Gilman makes his round at that moment, his cheery song practically wedging itself between them.

Whether it’s because Jodariel leaned forward to properly see the Wyrm-knight pass, or because Pamitha’s suddenly keen on them touching as much as politely possible, Jodariel ends up with a Harp glued to her side, her head resting on an uncovered shoulder.

“It does,” Pamitha says before Jodariel gets even a word of protest in (it’s purely superficial at this point.) She sounds relaxed. “Help, I mean. Doesn’t feel like I’m burning from the inside on the wind. Forces me to actually feel my feathers.”

Jodariel dares a light squeeze. With her free hand she takes the Harp’s discarded pillow, managing to lodge it between her head and the wagon wall without tearing it on her horns. She plans to sit there, to listen if Pamitha wants to talk, to keep her in the _now_ and _here._

Then she does something she hasn’t done in a long _, long_ while – she hums. Can’t tell you when she started, can’t tell you why she started. She could possibly tell you which song she’s humming, but it would be describing a place she once saw as a child and if you haven’t seen it, you probably won’t know what the fuck she’s talking about.

Pamitha looks up, surprised, and okay, one of those things is a lie. Jodariel can tell you why she started humming: her mother did it to soothe her, after a failure at the Academy, after her first fight, after father – any and all of the things.

Jodariel wants to pass on that feeling – that calm her mother’s voice brought her – to Pamitha. Even if a bit off-tune. Even if a bit choppy.

Feathers tighten around her hand, a nose presses into her scarf. Pamitha presses _“You didn’t say you could sing, Jodi”_ into it, voice carefree, playful – like the Pamitha Theyn she knows and yet more.

“It’s not singing,” Jodariel points out half-heartedly.

“Lovely,” Pamitha says, more to herself, yet Jodariel’s neck burns.

——————

Come morning she has a Harp (nose buried in her scarf) and a Wyrm-knight (helmet digging into her stomach) in her lap.

She shifts minutely and with a wince adds a stiff neck to the list.

——————

Jodariel waits for the Tempers to settle back into their camp before she approaches.

“Curly horns!” In hindsight she might’ve waited until Ignarius has gone into their wagon. Though he would just hop out, eager to see another Demon, eager to connect even if Jodariel sees them on opposite sides of a spectrum. All the same, Jodariel inclines her head in greeting. “Come for that drink?”

“No,” Jodariel says immediately, then amends, “Not tonight, Ignarius.”

His face falls, but he tries to play it off with a shrug. “Your loss. Found some good Coldburn the other day.”

She’s definitely not touching that.

“I actually came to speak with your Harp friend – associate. Teammate.” The Harp in question jumps up from the steps of the wagon, a reflex than anything by the sheepish look on her face. Ignarius looks at Jodariel, then glances over his shoulder at the Harp, then back to her, brow raised in question.

“Just a harmless question relating to Harps.”

Ignarius crosses his arms. “Don’t you have one of your own?”

“She’s biased,” Jodariel deadpans, and it earns her a hearty laugh from the Demon. He goes so far as to pat her on the shoulder, but quickly thinks better of it at Jodariel’s stare. He motions for the Harp to come over.

“Just don’t scare her off, eh. Calypso’s actually fun to work with.” He wags his finger at Jodariel, going for threatening. It’s been reset poorly so its motions look anything but. Jodariel nods just to get him to stop. As he moves away, Jodariel notes the Tempers’ Crone sitting by the bonfire, glaring. Her mind wanders to Bertrude and how she glared at the mere suggestion someone else useing her equipment.

The Harp hesitantly steps forward, wings nervously fidgeting, and it clicks. So Jodariel does what she’s been ignoring since the net of little Harps, much to her mother’s chagrin she’s sure – _“I raised you with manners, Jodariel”_ – she extends her hand, and introduces herself.

The Harp looks at her hand, then at Jodariel. “Is this a human thing?”

_So Harps don’t do handshakes. Go figure._

——————

“Presents?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s – uh – how do I –” The Harp bites her lip, squinting at the ground. With a nod she refocuses on Jodariel, “I don’t understand, do humans all want the same presents?”

Fair point. “No. Sorry.”

“I could tell you what _I’d_ like.” Calypso shrugs, wings upturned like palms. “’S the best I got.”

It’s the best she can hope for, in any case. Hedwyn’s been helpful, but it’s best to have a back-up in case her present proves unsatisfactory. (And she’s fairly sure it is unsatisfactory. Her mother used to paint murals with exceptional details, and Jodariel’s only ever managed malformed figures.)

She toyed with the notion of asking the wraith – or rather a Beyonder Harp – but the ridicule would be ten times compared to Rukey’s. Luck was on her side that the Tempers have added a Harp to their ranks. Jodariel gestures for her to continue. “Anything helps.”

That was the wrong phrase to use.

Calypso lists off various things – more than Jodariel can remember – including dresses, scarves, necklaces and poems. Jodariel gets the distinct feeling she’s found a romantic, unexpected since she’s most likely sent down here for insurgency. It’s punctuated further when Calypso lets out a dreamy sigh at _“a well-cooked meal at sunset.”_ The girl catches herself, and coughs to cover it up.

“I went off a bit. Sor –” Jodariel waves her hand, stalling the apology, and offers a tiny smile.

“It was educational. Thank you.” Jodariel inclines her head, ready to return to her own camp when the Harp raises a brown wing.

“If all else fails, get her something she misses.” Calypso shrugs at Jodariel’s quirked brow. Her eyes dart to their bonfire, a sigh slipping out. “Good memories and that, you know?”

——————

(“You all right there, Jodi?”

“Why wouldn’t I be, Reader?”

“Well, you went to Ignarius’ camp _willingly_.” The Reader gives her a pointed look before returning to her meal. The rest of the Nightwings are absent, most likely huddled inside.

“I discussed Harp courtships with their new member.” Jodariel keeps her voice nonchalant, as if she’s just talking about the weather. The Reader near chokes on her bite, and Jodariel pats her on the back to help it go down.

Movement on the roof catches Jodariel’s attention, but in the darkness of the forest it’s hard to tell what it is. She stands and waits, claws twitching. Nothing peeps – nothing moves.

“You _what?_ ” the Reader wheezes, hand pressing to the base of her throat, blinking away tears.

“It was a joke.” It’s the safest thing to say. Jodariel has her suspicions as to who was up there, and she wasn’t exactly quiet when she made that bold statement. The last thing she needs is to ruin whatever they are with her carelessness.)

——————

(Whatever they are? They’re friends. They have to be at least that.

Right?)

——————

She leaves her scarf, bundled up by a bucket, for a moment. Just to fetch soap both Bertrude and the Reader swear cleans stains without tearing into the fabric. So, truthfully, Jodariel wasn’t gone at all.

So when a colourful rock tumbles out of her scarf, the first thought that enters her mind is – _how?_

(The second being _sorcery_ but it doesn’t live long.)

The rock fits snuggly in Jodariel’s hand, and turning it over, she realises calling it a rock isn’t doing it justice. The colours are as if painted on, reminiscent of her mother’s mosaics, yet it was broken off – one side hosting dozen jagged points, spanning from bright blue against the tip of Jodariel’s claw, to deep purple against her palm.

It’s the third most beautiful thing she’s seen.

——————

(Yeah, okay, perhaps they’re past the ‘friends’ stage.

Naaaah, that’s just her wishful thinking.)

——————

“I apologise, my boy,” Dalbert’s old voice, withered and raspy as it is, is as wet with sorrow as is the water that ascended his son.

It’s a testament to both the Cur – for he has no reason to be sorry for his opponents, he won and his son is _free_ – and to Hedwyn – for he has every right to be angry, to be spiteful – and yet he offers a smile, and “He will be well, sir.”

She thinks, _He has every right to be angry with us, so close yet we failed_

But he stops Gilman’s apologies, tells him “We did our best” with a barely there hiccup. Pretends to be all right. Even gives her a shaky smile but she will not have it. Any of it. So she stops him in the wagon, covers the pot with her hands and forces him to look at her because he will not listen otherwise. He’ll ignore her, try to swipe everything under the metaphorical rug and drown himself in work and _she will not have it._

“This is not your fault.” And Jodariel repeats it, again and again until his sad smile goes away. Until she’s holding him close and rocking them gently. Until his hiccups stop.

Until he whispers brokenly, “I hoped” and she tells him “I know.”

_I did too._

——————

Pamitha storms into the kitchen, the sun barely peeking inside, and declares, “You’re having a Harp breakfast today, darlings.”

She falters, eyes darting to Jodariel’s, dropping to the claw pressed against her lips, then lower still to Hedwyn sleeping next to her. She tilts her head, considering.

“Guess it’s Harp meals all day,” she amends in a quieter voice. She looks to the pot, inspects the bags with ingredients with a nervous energy about her. No – jittery more like. Since when does Pamitha get jittery?

The Harp clicks her tongue. “We’ll be needing a few things.”

Jodariel’s up and holding a bag before Pamitha even bothers to ask.

——————

“You said only ‘a few things,’ Pamitha,” Jodariel points out, bag cutting into her shoulder painfully. It’s stuffed with odd plants, several plundered eggs from a tower, and a peculiar bunch of mushrooms – the likes Jodariel’s seen only once while scouting the ruined town. She makes a mental note to show them to Bertrude before any actual cooking.

“I’m doing the best I can, Jodi,” Pamitha shouts from above. Jodariel’s still fascinated and worried at a Harp hanging upside-down from the terrace, legs (barefooted) curled around the balustrade. She’s picking stubborn berries, gravity-defying by growing upside-down, simply because they “are the closest thing to blueberries I’ve found and those are _essential,_ darling.”

Without warning, Pamitha drops from the terrace.

Jodariel scrambles to catch her before the Harp flips and spreads her wings to glide down steadily. She offers a proud grin at Jodariel’s glare, holding a satchel of berries between her teeth.

“After all,” she continues, mouth satchel-free, “I _am_ basically making a recipe from scratch. Even if my aunt Luciana’s turning with the wind as we speak.”

Jodariel tries to stuff the satchel in the bag, but with an _ahem_ she relinquishes it to the Harp. “Is that an equivalent of turning in her grave?”

“Oh, Saint, no!” Pamitha laughs before she can stop herself. “She’s very much alive. She just has a sixth sense whenever someone tries of amend her recipes.”

“And this is not the same aunt that taught you dancing?”

“If she were, I’d have learned to trip over my own wings. But my Parabaccions would be to die for instead of, you know, _literally_ –” She mimes choking, feathers twisting near her neck and pulling a hilarious face. Absolutely fishing for a laugh. It nearly works, too.

Jodariel coughs to expel the would-be laugh, and asks, “How big is your family?”

Pamitha’s expression flicks back into a thoughtful frown. She presses a talon to her mouth, and Jodariel finds her eyes focusing on Pamitha’s lips – following intently as they shape numbers. She snaps out of it at Pamitha’s loud hum, opts to fix her scarf so her flaming neck’s obscured.

“Big,” Pamitha says. “Let’s go with big. No, let’s go with obnoxiously big.”

And it’s a terrifying thought, imagining a dozen Harps like the Theyn sisters, imagining the chaos. However, once she settles on the thought that, truly, there could only ever be _one_ Pamitha Theyn, her chest fills with warmth at the sight of so many little Harps, surrounded – _loved_ by so many. To imagine them without thinking of the war. To imagine a family untouched by it all – a family just _being_.

Her heart aches with a phantom pain.

“What about you?”

Jodariel clears her throat, claws tightening around the bag strap. “Vastly smaller. Just me and my parents.”

“Aw, no tiny Jodariels or stifling older brothers?”

“No.” Jodariel pitches her voice lower, rougher to hide the sadness. Even stops to snap a broken branch out of their way. Thinks she managed to hide it well, manages to throw it away with the branch.

Pamitha hip-checks her, and her comforting smile tells Jodariel all she needs to know about how well she’d hidden it. Jodariel grumbles out, words tumbling over each other without a clear thought.

“If Volfred’s plan works, and when you get back up there, you can adopt all of my cousins.” Pamitha laughs, a careless lilt in her voice. “Mother might even ship them to you.”

Jodariel doesn’t know when she stopped. Whether at the words _when you get back_ or _adopt all my cousins_. Or maybe at the insinuation of it all. At the weight – heavy on her shoulders, pressing on her tongue.

(At the thrill – her heart beating one of Gilman’s marching songs, _thump thump-thump thump_ like it wants out. Out and onto Pamitha’s wing, right between her talons.)

Pamitha turns around, finally realising Jodariel’s missing. It sweeps the weight off, forces her forward like a gust of wind. Somehow draws her voice from the orchestra playing in her chest.

“You’d let me take care of your cousins?” Jodariel asks because it’s surreal, even as a joke. But it’s not, it couldn’t be. Knows in her gut it isn’t, and her gut’s gotten her through the Border, through the Downside, to Hedwyn and Rukey and all of them. Knows it as sure as the olive branch dug into her arm, now vividly blooming.

Pamitha smiles a secretive smile and if Jodariel ever wished this woman would just not dance around her words, it’s now, in this damned alley of broken cobblestones and carrying ingredients for their _Harp_ breakfast.

“I wouldn’t want to deprive you of the experience, Jodi. Truly, it’s a – ” Jodariel freezes as Pamitha looks at her, looks like she sees through her to her heart, to that nook that’s become a room with an orchestra. Looks and her lips curl like an admission, like she _knows._

“One of a kind experience.”

And Jodariel doesn’t know what that means. That smile. That look. These words. This – this promise. This offering of an After, she doesn’t –

_Don’t lie Jodariel. You’re just too afraid to do it._

Of course she’s afraid to do it – that would mean putting everything on a platter and subject it to scrutiny.

_Then why are you doing any of this?_

“So they’re tiny versions of you,” Jodariel says, diverting attention from her sudden lapse, diverts her attention from the question still ringing in her ears even as she focuses on Pamitha squinting at her, eyes searching.

“Now, I don’t know whether that’s a compliment or an insult. And your lovely expression isn’t helping.” Pamitha raises her brow, a shameless smirk on her face, and it all clicks. Like a piece to a fresco.

_For her_ , she thinks. For the woman that growled _You can’t have her_ but also whispered, _Please wake up._ For the woman who wanted to dance. For the woman who masks an invitation under pretence of assisted cheating.

For Pamitha who cares beneath all those masks.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Jodariel shrugs and continues walking. And wishes she’ll figure it all out. Five steps in there’s a flutter of wings and Pamitha walks beside her again, protesting how she’s “the mysterious one.”

Jodariel snorts.

_Because maybe she’s not the only one stumbling through this._

——————

“Pamitha, this looks mushy.” Jodariel sniffs the concoction cooking in the pan, and wrinkles her nose. “Smells sour.”

“It’s fine.” Jodariel raises her brows, holds the expression until the Harp turns around and dumps chopped mushrooms into the mush. She gives Jodariel a confident grin. “Trust me, Jodi. I know what I’m doing.”

She could say _“You said you’re making a recipe from scratch”_ or _“You barely let Bertrude have a glance at those mushrooms.”_ But she doesn’t. She doesn’t say anything at all. Just nods and flips the mishmash of eggs and plants in the next pan.

——————

(The breakfast was… peculiar at best.

At worse it was spicy, overly salted and actually gave Volfred an allergy. Jodariel didn’t even know Saps had allergies, but Volfred face had splotches of lime green and Bertrude sighed, grumbling about having _“one morning of peace.”_

“My aunt did whine how I was the black feather in the Theyn kitchen,” Pamitha says lightly, happily accepting Hedwyn’s help with cooking. “Joke’s on her, she never had to taste Tamitha’s cooking.”

Jodariel shudders.)

——————


End file.
